


Blood Oath

by thexonexwhoxwanders



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Praimfaya | Radiation Wave, Arranged Marriage, Blood, But Roan, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Doesn't follow the plot after the City of Light is destroyed/Roan dies, F/M, I repeat: Roan/Clarke endgame, I still love Bellarke, Minor Character Death, POV Clarke Griffin, POV Multiple, POV Roan (The 100), Pining, Roan Lives (The 100), Roan/Clarke Endgame, Scarification, Slight Bellarke in the beginning, Slow Burn, Sorry Bellarke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27123632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thexonexwhoxwanders/pseuds/thexonexwhoxwanders
Summary: Echo (sarcastically) suggests that the only way an everlasting and strong alliance could exist between Skaikru and Azgeda is if the king married Wanheda. No one ever expected him to take it seriously… Least of all Clarke. Roan/Clarke, Kinda Clarke/Bellamy, S3/4 AU. Past Clarke/Lexa mentioned. Sort of Roan/Clarke/Bellamy triangle… Sort of. If you squint.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Roan
Comments: 62
Kudos: 163





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that the tags for this work indicate that Clarke/Roan are endgame.

Echo’s smirk never reaches her eyes. As her king paces the length of Polis’ throne room, hands clenched at his sides, he can feel her watching him closely, that feral smirk constantly in place, and it wrings his patience further. They’ve been discussing Skaikru again and the spy always knows how to agitate him on the matter.

His scowl deepens. The crown of bone sitting atop his head feels uncomfortable, out of place.

“You worry over them like children,” Echo says, and the barely-subdued malice in her tone brings Roan to a halt halfway through his pacing. His nostrils flare.

He glares at the spy, who has the decency to turn her gaze to the floor, despite the muscles in her jaw twitching. “I worry over all-out war. I may have banished Skaikru and Trikru from the Coalition, but don’t think for a second that other clans won’t join them against us. Lexa made sure Trikru was respected. Something, in case you didn’t notice, Azgeda severely lacks.”

Echo bristles. “Should any of the other clans think to back out of the Coalition, we strike them down. It’s that simple.”

“It isn’t,” Roan grunts. “Rule by the sword can only last so long. Nia showed us that.”

Echo’s features harden at the mention of his mother. He’ll never understand the spy’s devotion to such a cruel and cold-hearted queen, but he gains at least some satisfaction in seeing the woman as agitated as him. “Nia showed us that the clans respect violence. Not this… diplomacy Lexa tried. It doesn’t work.”

“It does.” Roan’s not sure where that comes from – does he really believe that? That diplomacy can work better than his knife at someone’s throat? Ever since he was a child, his mother and her advisors had prepared him to one day take her throne. To rule fiercely, unforgivingly, cruelly. To keep his subjects so afraid of him that none would ever dare break rank. But then he had met Wanheda. He had witnessed the Skaikru girl, time and again, appeal to Lexa’s humanity and succeed. Without a single drop of bloodshed.

Above all, Roan was Azgeda. Blood would always have blood. But something needed to be done about Skaikru’s broken alliance with Azgeda. Their medical experience alone proved that they were valuable allies. Their technology and their ability to create more…

No, he needed to make sure that Skaikru and Azgeda would never come to blows. That was what was good for his people. He felt it in his gut.

“We need to forge a stronger alliance with Skaikru,” Roan hears himself say as he stares at his throne. “Something unbreakable. Something our people – and theirs – would respect.”

Echo nearly gapes at her king. Nearly. She curses harshly and glares. “You mean this? Then you may as well marry Wanheda, if that’s what you want.”

The thought clicks in his head. Although Echo had all but snarled the suggestion, disgusted at the mere thought of her king marrying a Skaikru woman, it clicks in place.

A marriage alliance. Of course.

He cants his head to Echo, who’s still staring at him in bemusement and anger, and orders, “Bring me the Skaikru ambassador from his cell.”

“My liege – “

“Do it.”

Echo blinks. After another moment of tense silence, she nods briskly. “Yes, my king.”

As she darts from the room, Roan allows himself a moment to rest on his throne. His throne that was taken by force, that many would see him dead for. Including an alarming number of his own people. He taps his fingers absently on the metal armrests and lets his mind wander to this new possibility.

For a moment – just a moment – he envisions Wanheda in the white ceremonial furs. Then he banishes the thought from his mind entirely.

It would be a marriage alliance. Nothing more.

000

Kane’s legs feel weak as he’s led through the skyscraper’s many twists and turns and eventually into the elevator. Although Echo hasn’t explained why he is being taken out of the cell he shares with Bellamy, it is obvious now. The king wants to see him.

His stomach curls into knots.

Kane doesn’t have any illusions about Roan, King of Azgeda. The man had been trained to be a ruler – a bloodthirsty one at that. Ever since Skaikru and Trikru had been banished from the coalition a week ago – under the guise that Skaikru was withholding technology and medicine that could save Azgedan warriors – Kane had tried time and again to request an audience with the ruler, to make the man see reason. But Kane isn’t Clarke. He knows Roan, for reasons no one truly understands, trusts Clarke more than any of the Skaikru people. She has earned his respect. But Kane isn’t so lucky. The chains chaffing his wrists and ankles say that more than anything.

Once the elevator reaches the top floor, Echo shoves Kane forward. He nearly stumbles, but Echo grunts in irritation and grabs him again, pushes him forcefully towards the throne room. The doors are thrown open and Kane is shoved inside. He barely has time to notice Roan lounging on the Commander’s throne before one of his knees is kicked out from under him and he’s forced to the ground, like the powerless hostage that he is.

“Ambassador,” Roan greets coldly, his voice always a deep, unsettling rasp. “I’ve heard you’ve requested an audience with me. Several times.”

A flare of hope wells in Kane’s chest. “Yes, I have, I – “

“Silence,” the king demands, shifting on his throne. Although his body language is easy, casual, the king’s blue-green eyes are sharp as the daggers sheathed on his thighs. “I know why you wished to speak. But we have another matter to talk about, now.”

Uncertainty overwhelms that little bit of hope Kane has. He looks from the king’s somber expression to Echo’s furious gaze. 

“What’s happened?”

Roan sits upright. He’s hesitating, and it makes dread pool heavy in Kane’s stomach. Beside Kane, he can _hear_ Echo grit her teeth, sending a slight shiver down his spine.

“Nothing has happened,” Roan finally says. “I have a proposal for your people.”

Kane fights to keep his mouth from falling open in surprise. Has the king seen that Skaikru and Azgeda would work better together? That their banishment from the Coalition causes more harm than good?

Roan stands. He cuts an imposing figure, all black clothing, furs, and a crown of bone. He’s a beastly man – twice the size of Kane, at least – and some residual animal instinct in Kane’s head screams _danger_ at the sight of Roan towering over him.

“Your people have been dishonest,” Roan begins. “You’ve withheld valuable resources – not only from Azgeda, but from the Coalition. That’s why you’ve been banished, and Trikru alongside you.”

Kane opens his mouth to speak, but Echo snarls at him to remain silent.

Roan studies the ambassador with a keen eye. “I’m aware that your medicine and technology are not an unlimited supply. But it was your duty, as the thirteenth clan, to obey your Commander and king when he makes a request.”

Kane finds his voice. “Your majesty, if I may – “ He stops, waits to be silenced again, but all Roan does is cant his head. “We weren’t trying to disobey you. We’re simply trying to find ways to create more medication before our stocks fall too low. Surely you understand that.”

Roan just grunts. “Perhaps that’s true. But Skaikru does not have my trust. It’s the most loathed clan in all the Coalition. After the City of Light…” Roan doesn’t need to say more. After the City of Light, all of the clans had blamed Skaikru, the one clan known for their technology, for the destruction, the deaths. And Kane understands. “Regardless, we will need your medicine. Your technology. I’d be a fool king to say otherwise.”

Kane’s brows furrow together. “So you’ll lift the banishment?”

Roan stands tall. Again, Kane is reminded that his head could just as easily be lopped off in the next few minutes. “Yes,” the king says. “But under one condition.”

“Okay.” That’s doable. Provided the condition isn’t too outlandish.

Roan almost smirks, but it seems like more of a frown than anything. “I propose a marriage alliance. Between Skaikru and Azgeda.”

“A marriage alliance?” Kane questions, and now he can _feel_ waves of rage flow from Echo. Still, she says nothing. Doesn’t even look at him as he glances at her, then back to the king. “Between who, specifically?”

Kane hadn’t thought it was possible to be any more surprised by the world. But then Roan opens his mouth again, and he can’t find any words.

“Between Wanheda and I.”

000

The following day, Kane is given Octavia’s horse, Helios, for the trek back to Arkadia. More dread solidifies in his veins when he sees the beloved horse – Octavia would have never willingly left him behind, considering he was Lincoln’s – but Kane resolves himself to push on. This marriage alliance, as ludicrous as it seems to him, was the only thing the Azgedan king had proposed to end the banishment. And Bellamy will be held hostage until Wanheda answers the request.

Kane has conflicting feelings about that, specifically. He’s afraid Clarke will jump at any opportunity to save Bellamy, just as Bellamy would do the same for her. Like the strange trust that has accumulated between Clarke and Roan, there is also some unspoken _thing_ going on between her and Bellamy. It is well known, and probably why the king has kept Bellamy to begin with. The young man is easily a bargaining chip, if nothing else.

Helios is quick: a trip that would normally take an entire day lasts only half. As Kane is stewing over these thoughts, Arkadia’s gates come into view, and he feels simultaneously relieved and anxious. Relieved to see Abbey again, to be home, but anxious at this news he has to deliver. Clarke is a wildcard. Always has been and Kane suspects she always will be. 

He’s surprised to see Octavia standing at the gate when he arrives – she must have fled Polis, then, like he had hoped. Her eyes light up at the sight of her horse, and she steps past all the front gate guards to approach the beast, her hand automatically seeking out her companion. “You brought him back,” she says, half in wonder, her voice strained. “Thought I’d never see him again.” Then her eyes refocus on Kane. “You, either.”

Kane dismounts and hands the reins over to the young woman. A crowd of people has gathered at his return, murmurs going around about how the Chancellor is back from Polis, but Bellamy is not.

“Where’s Clarke?” There’s no use delaying. Bellamy is still a hostage, and although Kane is certain Roan wouldn’t let anything happen to the man, it still doesn’t sit right with him to have left Bellamy behind.

Octavia’s eyes narrow. She, too, notices her absent brother. Strangely, she doesn’t comment. Just lets her eyes wander to the empty space behind Kane, then out beyond the gate, like the dark-haired boy would suddenly pop up any second. Her sharp eyes – when had they become so sharp? – return to Kane, and she merely says, “In med bay.” Then she stalks off, Helios trotting behind her, spine stiff and gait measured.

Kane sighs. His gut twists. He’s seen, first hand, what the Skairippa can do. He just hopes none of that rage is directed at him right now, lest he find himself on the wrong end of her blade.

After finding med bay, he has to admit he notices Abbey first. She’s crouched down in front of a young girl, offering a consoling smile, gentle as she always has been. He watches her a moment, allows himself just that moment, before turning towards Clarke, whose back is to him. 

“Clarke.”

Both women running the med bay still. Abbey’s gaze immediately pierces him, relief shining brightly in her brown eyes. Clarke, on the other hand, looks wary. She, too, is looking for Bellamy, going so far as to glance over his shoulder.

“Kane…” She approaches him, her posture rigid as it sometimes gets, blue eyes uncertain. “You’re back.” She glances towards the doorway once more, purses her lips, and finally asks, “Where’s Bellamy?”

“That’s why I’m here.” He looks from Abbey to Clarke. “Can we go someplace quiet to talk?”

000

“Absolutely not,” Abbey says, her hands braced on the table in what has been dubbed the War Room, where only the three of them stand. “ _No_.” She looks first at Kane, who can only offer her a sheepish frown in return, and then to Clarke, who is unsettlingly quiet. Staring down her daughter, Abbey reiterates: “I said _no_ , Clarke. This is ludicrous. A marriage alliance? And for what? Just so we buy ourselves more time to make medicine that they’ll take from us anyway?”

Clarke still doesn’t speak, so Kane jumps in. Although he’s hesitant to expound anymore than he already has, he feels like he needs to ensure they have all the details. “They won’t take the medicine forcefully. They’ll give us time to refill our stocks and then some. He understands our meds and tech aren’t a limited supply, and that we have to start manufacturing certain products. Plus… he said this is the only way to secure an unbreakable alliance with Azgeda. They recognize marriage vows above all. Clarke would be safe, and Skaikru and Trikru couldn’t be banished from the coalition again. We’d be permanent members.”

Abbey’s glare settles on Kane. He tries to hold it as best he can. “And what about selling Clarke’s freedom, Markus? You want me to marry my daughter off for an _alliance_?”

“I’m not advocating for it, Abbey. Ultimately… I think it’s up to Clarke.”

The blonde finally shifts, her steely blue eyes meeting Kane’s. For a moment, he thinks he sees appreciation.

“He’s right, mom.” She places a hand over Abbey’s. Her voice is soft but stern. “Roan wants the… marriage,” it’s hard for her to get the word out, obviously tastes strange on her tongue, “to be between him and I. It’s my decision. No one else’s.”

She looks to Kane again, and he’s floored, as he always is, to see so much wisdom in her eyes. He had stopped thinking of Clarke as just a kid some time ago… but it’s still hard to see such a young woman weighed down by so many tough decisions. Decisions he feels even he couldn’t make “Roan has Bellamy. At the very least, I’m going to Polis to negotiate. We’ll get Bellamy back… and we’ll see what happens from there.”

Her words sound final, but Abbey doesn’t accept this. “You can’t be serious, Clarke. We’ll get Bellamy back another way – “

“What other way?” Clarke asks, an arch in her brow. “There are over a thousand Azgedan warriors in Polis. This _is_ the only way.”

Abbey purses her lips. She straightens up, spine like steel, and Kane can see clearly where Clarke gets her stubbornness from. And her fire. “You’re sure about this?” Abbey is by no means accepting; her tone is drawn, short.

Clarke nods. “I am. I’ll leave for Polis in the morning.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all the comments/kudos. I intended to wait a week to post the second chapter, but here it is a little early.
> 
> Also, just an FYI, this was actually something I wrote some time ago (and intend to finish completely) that I never meant to post, so if you see any inconsistencies or something, please let me know! This story is unbeta'd and all mistakes are my own.

Polis has changed. There are small things here and there – the black Azgeda handprint, their banner, is painted throughout the city. Guards with black and white painted faces that are skull-like, with furs and blunt weapons, stand at random checkpoints. The people of Polis walk through the city with caution, eyes cast over shoulders and hands tense. Clarke misses the way the city was under Lexa’s rule.

Clarke misses Lexa.

She forces the thought away as she comes upon her third checkpoint, now in the center of the city. Instead of only two guards standing post, she also sees a familiar, stoic face.

Echo.

The spy looks none too happy to see Clarke. Her face, which is usually schooled into an expression of careful indifference, instead is lined with a quiet sort of rage. Still, when she greets Clarke, she is civil. Mostly.

“Wanheda. We have been expecting you.”

Clarke arches a brow. “It’s only been a day.”

Echo smirks, but it’s an empty gesture. “We have Bellamy. Figured you wouldn’t leave him for too long.”

It’s true. Bellamy is at least half the reason why she’s here, and why she requested that she come alone. Roan trusts her and only her; he’s made it obvious time and again that he doesn’t trust anyone else from Skaikru. Another negotiator would only increase the possibility of agitating the king. Which is, admittedly, easier to do these days.

Clarke follows Echo to the skyscraper jutting up to the clouds in the center of the city. She’s followed Lexa along this route numerous times before. Her heart squeezes painfully in her chest, and she can’t help but compare this moment to the many others. Where Echo is stiff and formal, moving towards the skyscraper quickly, angrily, Lexa had always been almost feline. Always ready for an attack, shoulders pulled back and spine straight, but still so at ease. Radiating power. Commanding respect.

Clarke blinks. They’re inside, now, at the elevator shaft. Echo gestures for Clarke to step inside, but Clarke finally holds back and crosses her arms over her chest.

“I want to see Bellamy first.”

Echo glares. “No.”

Bristling, Clarke shifts her stance. “Yes. If you want me to go up and meet with Roan, then I need to see that Bellamy isn’t harmed.”

Unphased, Echo holds her ground. “No. That wasn’t part of the deal. You can negotiate with the king about that once you see him. Now, get in.”

It’s no use arguing with Echo. The woman has always hated Clarke, though Clarke could never be sure why, exactly. Repressing the urge to huff, Clarke just presses her lips together and steps into the elevator. They begin the long ride up to the top, neither woman looking directly at the other, but keeping each other in their peripherals. Clarke supposes she trusts Echo about as much as Echo trusts her: not at all.

It isn’t until the elevator doors open to the top floor when Clarke begins to feel panic brew in her chest. She hadn’t slept the night prior because of it, but had managed to get it under control on her way to Polis. But it was back again, full force. Panic at seeing Roan. At talking about… marriage. Negotiating terms. Even panic about what Bellamy will think of all this, when he finally finds out. She wonders, again, if the king is actually serious about a marriage alliance – with _her_ of all people – or if he’s using this as another way for them to meet and agree to some terms. She hopes it’s the latter. Part of her can’t even fathom Roan taking a marriage alliance seriously. He is a lone wolf. It’s obvious in his every movement; maybe a residual effect of his banishment, but still. An alliance is one thing. Marriage is another beast entirely.

Echo, sensing Clarke’s hesitance, smirks again. The woman only has three expressions: that malicious smirk, some spectrum of rage, and the disquieting stoicism.

“Having second thoughts, Wanheda?”

Clarke refuses to give in to this goading. She steps out from the elevator as confidently as possible. Carries herself the way she imagines Lexa would in this situation. Head high. Like _she’s_ in control.

Echo merely grunts. Steps ahead of Clarke and motions for the guards to open the doors to the throne room.

She hadn’t been prepared to see Roan sitting so at ease on Lexa’s throne.

It hits her in the chest. She stops breathing for a moment and just stares. That final day with the last true Heda comes back to Clarke – all that black, black blood. She wonders if it’s too late to back out, now, because she doesn’t know if she can do this. If she can be in this place where the woman she loved died.

Before she can think on it any further, Roan barks out, “Leave us,” to his warriors, to Echo. Clarke finally glances at him, absorbs him fully, and finds his eyes steadfast on her. Piercing. There’s something in them she can’t quite put a name to. But she’s grateful that she doesn’t have to be silently judged by Echo, by Azgeda warriors who hate her, as she stands in this room that makes her heart ache.

Once the doors shut firmly behind her, Roan stands from the throne. He moves away from it, eyes never once leaving Clarke. She wonders if he realizes how painful it is for her to see him there. If he moves for her benefit.

“Wanheda.”

His voice is deep, raspy. She’s always intrigued by it. It’s enough to pull her stare from the throne to where he now stands – at a table that’s never been in this room before, where there are two chairs.

He gestures to one. “Sit.”

A ‘please’ would’ve been nice, but she’s guessing princes – and now, kings – don’t really learn those skills.

She complies. Waits for him to sit first, since she thinks that’s how you properly deal with royalty, and wonders at the amused smirk that plays on his lips as he takes notice.

“It’s just us,” he says after they’re settled. “You can quit the formalities.”

Clarke frowns. “Doesn’t feel that way when one of us is wearing a crown.”

There’s a moment of silence as Roan considers this. Sighing, he pulls the crown of bone from his head and places it on the table, between them. The gesture feels symbolic, and Clarke reigns in her roiling stomach. She refuses to look down at the table.

Roan looks much more like the man she has known, now. Dressed in black furs, black vambraces, a black collared coat that has buckles at his sternum and sides. The typical Azgeda dress, armor and fur. But without the crown, she feels like she can relax a bit more, now.

“Better?”

Clarke nods. Studies his sharp features. “I want to see Bellamy.”

Roan laughs – it’s dry, and probably at her expense. “You do get straight to business, I’ll give you that.”

“I mean it, Roan. I want to see him. Before we talk about… whatever this is.”

The king’s head cocks at that, eyes glittering. “Did Kane not tell you?”

Clarke ignores the cotton-ball dryness of her mouth. The way her belly squirms. “He did.”

“Ah. So you just don’t want to use the word marriage, then.”

 _Oh God_. Now that he has said it out loud, the panic comes back. Builds up. Like all the air in her lungs has become cemented, heavy, _wrong_. She fidgets with her hands under the table and tries to hide her frown.

Roan sobers some at her unease. Although his eyes are still glittering, his brows have puckered in worry. “Have you come to reject the marriage alliance?”

Clarke answers truthfully: “I don’t know.”

He seems satisfied with this. Running one finger along a spire of his crown, he stares at the table in thought. “You think we can come to some other arrangement.”

“I don’t see why not. My people weren’t intentionally hiding the medication from the Coalition, Roan. You have to know that.”

Roan scowls at an antler point on his crown before meeting Clarke’s gaze. “I don’t know that. And before you ask – no, I don’t necessarily trust you, Clarke. You’ll do anything you can to save your people, just as I would.”

“We needed time to produce more,” she tries to reason with him. “You can’t ask for us to give the only antibiotics left on Earth away without a plan in place to make more.” Clarke narrows her eyes at the Ice King. “And Trikru shouldn’t have been banished along with us. Indra was only trying to help.”

“Help keep your secret, you mean.”

Clarke feels a tumult of emotions: hurt, anger, fear. The same way she felt when she learned Roan, someone she had considered her ally, banished her kru altogether from the Coalition without so much as allowing Skaikru a defense for their actions.

“You asked me to come here to negotiate with you. How am I supposed to do that when you won’t hear me out?”

Roan studies her closely. How tense her shoulders are, how gaunt her cheeks have become. He sighs and settles back into his chair, hands flat on the table. “I will hear you out. But I also expect you to understand that I’ve considered other options, and the only way my people will ever trust or respect yours is through a marriage alliance. Unless you’d rather have all-out war.”

Those words again. _Marriage_. _War_. “That seems a bit extreme, doesn’t it?”

Roan’s eyes flash. She’s forgotten what a strange color they are – blue and green and gray. “No. To my people, marriage is an unbreakable bond. It would serve your people well. War would no longer be an option. It would be as if we’re one clan.”

Clarke almost doesn’t say it, but feels she has to. “Your mother murdered your father. Doesn’t sound like an unbreakable bond to me.”

The glare that settles on the king’s face isn’t meant for Clarke, but it scares her all the same. “My mother had no respect for tradition, or honor, or duty. When I give my word, I keep it. When I make a vow, I keep it.”

So he means it, then. He’s actually serious about a marriage alliance.

Now more than ever, Clarke _needs_ to see Bellamy.

“Then we’ll negotiate,” Clarke says as confidently as she can manage. “But first, I need to see him, Roan.”

Roan considers her for so long that she almost squirms. His stare is relentless, and she can’t guess what he’s thinking. Not at all.

“Fine. You can see him. But then we _negotiate_.” And the way he says that last word tells her that what she has hoped would happen here – that they would come to some arrangement other than marriage, of all things – is very likely not going to happen at all.

000

When the cell door opens, Bellamy doesn’t look up. Either it’s mealtime or he has another cellmate. The only break in that routine has been when they took Kane away for God knows what yesterday. Bellamy hasn’t seen him since.

So he’s more than a little shocked when he hears a familiar, “Bellamy?”

He looks up so quickly it almost makes him dizzy. _Clarke_.

He tries to stand, but his chains keep him sitting on the floor. “Clarke, what the hell are you doing here?”

She offers him a watery smile and steps further into the cell. The door remains open behind her, and Bellamy can see Echo scowling at its entrance.

“It’s okay,” Clarke tells him, crouching down to his level, before taking his head in her hands. For a moment, he thinks she’s showing some sign of affection and leans into her touch. But she turns his chin this way and that, and he realizes she’s taking stock of the cuts on his skin. Always so serious.

Embarrassed, he speaks up, hoping his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. “’m fine. Just a few scratches.”

“They haven’t hurt you?” The fear in her voice quells his embarrassment. She’s been just as worried about him as he has about her.

“No. Like I said – I’m fine.”

“Good.” She hesitates, and he worries over what she’ll say next. Bad news, probably. Is Kane dead? Is that why she’s here?

He hates to even think it – the thought makes him nauseous – but… Octavia?

“Everyone’s okay,” she reassures him, easily reading his expression. “I’m here to get you out.”

Bellamy’s eyebrows furrow. He glances back at Echo, who’s glaring at the ground. “How?”

“I’m negotiating with Roan.”

There’s a tremor in her voice. He knows her well enough by now – there’s something she’s not telling him. “Negotiating what?”

Clarke lets out a breath. She moves to sit next to him; absently, her hand finds his. He can’t help but let his thumb stroke over her palm. “An alliance.”

Bellamy watches her face carefully, but she’s not giving anything away. “We already had an alliance, and they broke it.”

“Well, this would be a new alliance. With new terms.”

“What kinds of terms?”

There. There’s panic in her blue eyes. Part of him thinks to wrap an arm around her, comfort her, but he knows that’s crossing a line. He just continues to stroke her palm, hoping that conveys enough.

“Clarke,” he says when she doesn’t answer. “What kinds of terms?”

“Don’t be mad.”

Oh, great. Totally great. Nothing that ever started with ‘ _don’t be mad’_ ended well. Looking after his baby sister for so long instilled that lesson in him. Bellamy already feels anxiety bubbling in his chest.

“Just _tell_ me.”

Clarke runs her free hand through her hair, pulling at the ends. “Roan… He sent Kane to Arkadia yesterday. With a proposal.”

She’s stalling, but he won’t rush her. He just stares at her intently, at the way she fidgets.

“He thinks… Well, he thinks a marriage alliance would keep Skaikru and Azgeda from coming to blows.”

Bellamy can’t process it immediately. He’s silent for several long beats, his frown growing deeper and deeper. “A _what_?”

Clarke offers him a sad smile. “Yeah. I know.”

And it’s not hard to put two and two together, but he needs to hear her say it. “Between who?”

Now, she can’t even look at him. “Bellamy…”

“Between who, Clarke?”

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Between me and Roan.”

“ _No.”_ Up until now, Bellamy has had some respect for Roan. He has been fair – for the most part. He doesn’t shed blood unnecessarily. But this – this is going too far. This is _wrong_. “No. You’re going to tell him no, and then you’re going straight back to Arkadia. Understand me?”

Clarke’s eyes are watery, and that breaks him more than anything. She’s afraid. For _him_. When she should be more worried about herself. Her hand squeezes his. “Bellamy, listen to me. I’m going to negotiate with him, okay? Nothing’s set in stone yet. But first, I’m getting you out of here. That’s my priority.”

He huffs in exasperation. “You clearly don’t have your priorities straight then. You need to get _yourself_ out of here. Don’t worry about me. Just get out while you can, understand?”

He _needs_ her to understand this. Because if something happens to Clarke… then all this has been for nothing. All this suffering. These struggles.

Clarke stands, her hand falling away from his. He aches to grab it again, but still… he won’t cross that line. “I’ll make sure you get to Arkadia safely. Tell my mom I’m fine, okay?”

She’s not listening to him. He calls out after her when she turns to leave, but she doesn’t look back. Echo closes the cell door behind her, expression somber, indifferent.

Bellamy feels cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter is Roan/Clarke centric.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter than the previous two, but I’ll make up for it in the next two, which I’m editing right now. Your kudos and comments have inspired me to update more!

Clarke can’t stop staring at the throne. She’s sitting at the table with Roan again, but it’s the throne that takes up all her attention. It was _Lexa’s_ throne, and it always would be. At least in Clarke’s mind. Nothing will change that for her.

Strangely, it takes a lull of silence for her to realize that Roan has been speaking to her this entire time. When she finally tears her gaze away from the throne, she finds him studying her closely, like he’s picking her apart. Instinctually, she wants to cross her arms over her chest, preserve some of herself, but she knows that’s a sign of weakness, and if she wants to gain anything through these negotiations, she can’t afford to seem weak.

“Lexa was a good Commander,” Roan surprises her by saying, lounging back in his chair. Clarke envies how easy everything seems for him, right then. Speaking of the dead. Ruling. _Living._

“She had your mother banish you, so I doubt you really mean that.”

He offers her a half-hearted smile. “My mother used me as a pawn, Clarke. I never blamed Lexa for taking advantage of that. I would’ve done the same, in her place.”

Clarke just stares at him, tries to figure out his angle. She doesn’t like talking about Lexa. To anyone. Ever. “First thing’s first – you let Bellamy go. You have me here. You don’t need another hostage.”

If he’s bothered by her abrupt subject change, he doesn’t show it. “You’re not a hostage. You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to be.”

Clarke keeps her chin up. “Regardless, then. Let Bellamy go.”

“After we finish negotiating.”

“Why? I’m here. I’m willing to listen and come to some sort of agreement on all this. You don’t need him anymore.”

Roan’s smile is empty, humorless. For not the first time, he reminds her very much of a wolf – fierce, strong, stubborn, and entirely unpredictable. “He’s what’s keeping you here. That’s why.”

Clarke grips the armrests of her chair. Pressing her lips together tightly, she says, “Let him go or I leave.”

“You wouldn’t leave him. I’m no fool.”

“No, you aren’t. Which is why you know that I’m going to keep at this point until something’s done about it.”

Roan’s head tilts just the slightest. His eyes narrow as he mulls the thought over. He leans forward on the table, forearms braced against it, and determines, “I’ll release him from his cell and give him a room up here. He’ll be comfortable, but still guarded.” Roan fixes Clarke with a steady look. “That’s all I’m willing to concede.”

It’s better than nothing. Seeing Bellamy down in that cell, chained up, dirt smearing his face, dried blood sticking to old wounds… “Fine.” She’s not happy, and it’s evident by her tone. “But you’ll let him go when we’re done.”

Roan nods. “You have my word on that.”

“And he won’t be harmed. Or used to coerce me into anything.”

“Whatever agreement we reach, I want it to be your choice, Clarke.”

A relieved breath escapes Clarke’s lungs. That has been her ultimate fear, so far. That Azgeda would use Bellamy against her. Bellamy is Clarke’s Achille’s heel and everyone knows it. But she believes Roan when he gives his word.

A shadow passes over her face; beyond the throne and the tapestries hung over it, Clarke sees the sun descending towards the horizon. Has that much time already passed?

Roan notices the same and stands, so Clarke follows. “Let’s call it a day, then. You’ll be shown to your room and I’ll have Bellamy shown to his shortly after.”

Good. If she stays in this room any longer, she’s afraid she’ll get lost in her memories of Lexa and never come back. She needs time away. Time to think. “Okay. We pick up again tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’ll have someone send for you. In the meantime, you’re not a prisoner, Clarke.” Again, the look he gives her is impossible to decipher. “You can do as you please.” Then he smirks. “Just try not to cause any trouble.”

000

Clarke is given different rooms than those she had used when she stayed under Lexa’s protection. For this, she’s immensely grateful. There are too many things in her former room that would haunt her: the chaise lounge she’d sit in while Lexa napped and Clarke sketched, the balcony she and the Heda had countless midnight conversations on…

Clarke banishes the thoughts from her mind and settles down on her new temporary bed. The backpack she had brought with her is resting on it, holding the few things from Arkadia that are hers: a sketchbook and pencils, some clothes, a gun and a single clip. It’s admittedly sad. She briefly remembers the quarters she and her parents had shared on the Ark. All the artwork. The photos. The _things_ that served as proof that they lived there, they called that place home.

She doesn’t miss the Ark, but she misses that feeling, the one that has eluded her since landing on Earth. Having a home.

The torches and candles scattered around her room flicker as the night deepens. Pulling her sketchbook and a pencil from her backpack, Clarke settles into the bed and allows herself to be lost to sketching, mulling over what the next day will bring and how little sleep she’ll get.

000

Bellamy frowns in confusion as Roan, King of Assholes, steps into his cell and orders a guard to remove his chains.

“The hell is going on?”

Roan gives him a wry smirk. “You have Wanheda to thank for this,” is all the king says, and Bellamy feels fear tug at his heart, sharp and painful.

Clarke – she had said she would negotiate. Something must’ve gone wrong, and now Roan wants to use Bellamy as leverage. And Clarke… Clarke would do whatever the king says, just to save him. It’s why he wishes she had stayed far, far away.

He can’t protect her like this.

“On your feet,” the king demands, but Bellamy doesn’t listen. He’s still trying to come up with some way to salvage this, to fix things, to keep Clarke from having to pawn herself off to this man, to sacrifice herself for her people, yet again. Then two rough hands are lifting him up, all but tossing him on his feet, and Bellamy struggles to keep his balance.

Being shackled to the ground for a week makes it hard to find his bearings.

“You son of a bitch,” Bellamy grits out, hating the tiny gleam in the king’s eyes as Bellamy is marched from the cell. The man just leans back against the wall, arms loosely crossed, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “I swear to God, if you try to force her hand in this – “

“Relax,” Roan says, rolling his eyes. He nods at one of the guards, and not a moment later, the shackles that have been rubbing the skin of Bellamy’s wrists raw fall to the ground with a clang. Bellamy stares at them, uncertain. “You’ll be taken to a room. Someone will bring you food.” Then Roan steps into Bellamy’s space, eyes hard, all that easygoingness seeping away. “You’ll be guarded closely. So if you try anything, you’ll just make Clarke’s life even harder. And you don’t want that, do you?”

“I don’t understand.” The guards are already trying to lead Bellamy away, but he drags his feet and looks questioningly at Roan.

The king’s face is completely indecipherable, now. “You have a good friend, Bellamy. Now go. Eat and rest. I don’t want our negotiations to be delayed any further because Clarke is distracted by your health.”

Finally, he lets the guards lead him away.

000

When she rises in the morning and leaves her room, Clarke immediately notices a pair of guards standing post in front of a door halfway down the hall. She pauses midstride and stares at them for a long minute.

Roan had kept his word. She knows Bellamy is in there, safe. She can feel it. Walking towards the guards, she notices them tense at her approach, but doesn’t shy away from them.

“Has he eaten?” she asks, looking first from one warrior to the next. Their expressions don’t change in the slightest, but she can read irritation radiating from them in waves. They don’t want her here.

“I said, has he eaten?”

The one on the right, wearing what she believes is a puma’s skull, snarls at her. “The king said not to let you near this room, Wanheda.”

“Then answer me and I’ll leave.”

He grunts. “Yes.”

Clarke fixes the guards with a cold look – she would not look weak, she wouldn’t – before she turns and leaves. Roan hadn’t said she couldn’t visit Bellamy, but he had already conceded to remove Bellamy from his cell, give him a room, _and_ make sure he was well looked after. She supposes this is Roan’s little show of power. While he is willing to negotiate with her, he won’t let her make all the rules.

Of course, she has known this. It scares her nonetheless.

It’s not that she’s afraid of Roan, even. Not really. They are friends, aren’t they? They’ve saved each other’s lives. They understand one another because each of them would do anything they had to – even sacrifice themselves – to save their people. She’s not afraid he’ll hurt her, not at all. He’s not that kind of man.

However, she _is_ afraid that he truly thinks a marriage alliance is the only feasible agreement they can come to. And she dearly hopes she can show him that’s not the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So. I’m trying to take some unnecessary scenes out and stuff – a lot of what I had written, back when I didn’t plan on posting any of this, could be long-winded and such. Clarke’s pretty stubborn and very protective of Bellamy, which is obviously annoying for Roan and his goals (and was a bit frustrating to write because I know she is, but I wanted to move the plot forward… Clarke just wanted to keep pushing a topic though, so I guess I let her). 
> 
> Also, please leave a comment if you can. Let me know what you like! What you’d like to see! If my writing is okay! This is a new writing style for me that I’ve been testing out, and I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. 
> 
> <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone – thanks for sticking with me. I meant to post sooner but it’s been a very rough week and a half. 
> 
> I wanted to get this out so I can post chapter five, which is where other subplots begin to emerge and the story broadens. And there’ll be so much Roan and Clarke.

When Clarke arrives to resume negotiations, Roan already has the crown perched on the table in the corner and feels a strange and immense relief that he doesn’t have to wear it around everyone. Of course, his position as warrior and ruler doesn’t dictate that he must wear it all the time – it would simply be unfeasible, particularly for combat, which speaks to the scars that span from his temples to his jaw. But Echo reminds him daily that his people need to _see_ him as their king, every moment they lay eyes on him, until his three years of banishment in their minds are instead replaced with the image of him as their new, powerful ruler.

He understands, even if it is begrudgingly. Banishment is one of the most extreme punishments in Azgeda. Worse than death. To have been banished, and for so long… He has seen the way his warriors regard him. Weary. Uncertain. He knows the walls have eyes and ears and these first few months will be the most perilous of his rule.

But he also knows he is better than his mother. If there is an option for peace and for a long and prosperous Ice Nation, then he shall do everything in his power to secure that. For Azgeda. For his people.

He is pacing the throne room, mulling over his responsibilities, when Clarke walks in.

He feels an unusual relief bloom in his chest, but it’s short-lived. Clarke is tense, glaring over her shoulder at the guards that close the doors behind her.

Roan immediately ceases his pacing, clenching his jaw. “Has something happened?”

When Clarke turns her sky-blue eyes on him, his worries ease when he realizes it’s irritation, not anger, in her gaze “Why can’t I see Bellamy?”

Ah. This again. Roan presses his lips together and wonders if the Skaikru boy and Clarke’s loyalty to him will hold negotiations even longer. If that’s the case… he might have to consider sending the boy back to Arkadia sooner rather than later.

He knows what Echo would say about the matter: _Weak. Nia would’ve kept him here. Tortured him in front of the girl. Be strong, like your mother_.

Roan clenches his jaw.

“Because he’s a distraction. I already assured you he’d be fine.”

Clarke holds his stare, which not many can do. Roan is every bit aware of his power over people, the fear he incites in them by mere presence alone, and uses it to his advantage, always. But things are different with Clarke. She’s too stubborn to be afraid.

Another reason why he believes the marriage alliance will work.

Instead of pursuing the topic further, Clarke simply nods. He’s surprised by her easy acceptance, but she is always capable of surprising him. She looks to the table where his crown sits, then back at him, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

It’s only now he realizes how _young_ she is, and it’s enough to give him pause. Azgeda takes children into battle, it’s true. But the youth in Clarke’s face – whenever it does make a rare appearance – reminds him that battle and marriage are vastly different things.

“Can we talk on the balcony, today?” she asks. Although her expression is uncertain, her voice is strong.

Roan’s reply is easy. The throne room gets too stuffy for him on even the best day. “Of course.” He leads the way outside, where the wind tugs at his half-loose hair, carrying a freshness to it he could never find inside this tower. It reminds him of Azgeda, the clean, cool air of the mountains, the _freedom_. Polis stretches out down below him, citizens moving like tiny specks of dust through streets and alleys, gathering at the marketplace, and it’s an oddly peaceful combination.

Clarke has joined him, though she stands a good three feet away, and stares down at the city with a furrow between her brows.

“Polis’ people are wary of your kru,” Clarke states matter-of-factly, glancing sidelong at him. The wind plays with her hair, the sun’s rays brightening her golden strands. “You won’t be able to hold the city forever. Even with the Flame.”

Roan places his hands on the balustrade. A weary sigh escapes his lips. Clarke isn’t trying to rile him into action, like Echo and his other advisors. She’s being pragmatic.

 _Just as a good queen would be_ , his mind whispers. Already his mind has conjured a hundred ways in which having a strong queen by his side would help sustain his rule. Bring peace to the thirteen clans. Bring an end to constant warring and death.

Already his mind can only picture Clarke in that role.

“That’s probably true,” Roan finally says. He runs a finger over the stone railing, focuses on the grainy texture a moment. “But an alliance with Skaikru would strengthen our foothold here. Your people’s medications and technology, available at the market, for commoners…” It would boost morale. Save lives. Even lives that aren’t his own people. Ever since meeting Clarke, seeing how desperately she wants to save _everyone_ , not just her own, he has started to think of these things, too. Azgeda above all, but when and where he could… he would do better for others.

Clarke still isn’t convinced. “We’ve only just started medication production. We won’t have enough supplies to even stock the marketplace for another couple months, at the very least. You really think you can hold Polis that long?”

“I think I can if the people have hope for these things. If your people deliver, that is.”

Her eyes flash. “My people keep their promises, Roan.”

“They haven’t always.”

She bites her lip. Looks away. “Fine. That might be true. But we’re doing our best. Just like everyone else.”

He doesn’t want to start off their talks for the day poorly. Easing his stance, he nods. “I know. And I know you’re skeptical of what I’m proposing. But you have to understand – in Azgeda, nothing is as unbreakable as a union between two people. We carry them out politically all the time, so our factions remain peaceful and united. You think there’s a better way… but there isn’t.”

Just as he’s predicted, she tries to sway his opinion regardless. “What about a blood pact? Your people seem to take that pretty seriously.”

Roan’s smile feels cold. “Indeed, between the bearers of the blood. But should I be slain, then the pact would be null. No one would recognize it, and our people would be at odds again. Unless you make a blood pact with each and every one of my people – which is hardly saying anything about _convincing_ them to do so – then that’s not an option.”

A bit of hope dashes from Clarke’s eyes. She shifts her stance, runs a hand through her long blonde hair. “Come on, Roan. _Work_ with me. You can’t possibly think marriage is the only way. It’s – it’s _ridiculous_. Archaic. Plus, you’d have to be married to _me_.”

He sees it now, plain as day: Clarke is terrified. As much as she tries to hide it, and as well as she does most of the time, she’s absolutely terrified about this prospect, and Roan doesn’t much blame her. He’s terrified, too.

He hasn’t let himself dwell on it much – not since he first thought of Wanheda in white, donning the traditional Azgeda marriage robes, her face painted, their hands sliced at the palm and an X over each heart, enjoined. He’d be lying to say he _hasn’t_ thought about it, beyond the political implications. Late at night, after a long day of hard decisions, when he worries over Azgeda and his people and their future and how to solve it all.

But marriage is something he never thought he would have. At least, not to someone who is a friend. Someone he almost trusts. He always envisioned that he would marry whatever high-born Azgeda woman of his mother’s choosing and spend most of his days away at battle or training.

He never imagined a blonde-haired, fiery girl who fell from the sky, who commands death and respect and something deeper, even, within him. Someone he could actually enjoy the company of.

But if Clarke is this terrified, then one of them has to be confident. Or this whole thing will fall apart. For Azgeda, he needs this to work. Even if his people don’t understand that yet.

An easy smirk slips onto his mouth. It’s the smirk of the peasant-prince he has become. “Marrying you isn’t a problem, Wanheda.”

“Because I’m the Commander of Death and it means you’ll have my power?”

She’s shrewd, he’ll give her that. “Partly.”

Clarke can’t hold his gaze. She looks at her feet, her hands – anywhere but at him. Finally, she adds, “For my people, marriage isn’t some political union. We do it for other reasons.”

Roan eyes her. “You mean love.”

He’s no fool. He has learned this about Skaikru. Of course, many of the other clans marry for love, too. But Azgeda is a nation of warriors. The sword above all. Battle above all. Love in Ice Nation is always temporary.

Clarke is blushing fiercely, and he can’t help but smirk broader at the idea of making the Commander of Death squirm about something so pedestrian.

“Yes.”

“Are you implying I’m not loveable, Clarke?”

She grows even more flustered, if that’s possible. “It’s not – no, of course not - I wasn’t trying to say – “

Roan laughs, and she stops trying to find excuses and glowers at him instead. “Easy. I’m kidding.”

Her scowl looks much more familiar than her blush. So out of place on someone so young. He had worn that expression, too, around ten winters ago. “Who knew you actually have a sense of humor.”

Roan rolls his eyes. Now, she’s truly irritated. “Clarke.” She cants her chin and holds his stare, that hard determination back in her blue eyes. He’s glad to see it. “If you want to marry for love… Then marry for the love of your people. For all the lives you’ll save.”

She’s still determined, but some other emotion has joined with her expression, morphing it into worry. “How can you be certain this will save lives? If we remain banished from the Coalition, then we’ll find others to trade with. We don’t _have_ to go to war.”

Roan falters a moment. He finally has to tell her the truth. What his people want, and how poorly he is holding them off right now. Echo tells him it’s because they don’t see him as a strong ruler. Maybe not. But he will redefine what a strong ruler is to Ice Nation, so no one ever has to be terrorized by a queen like Nia ever again.

“Because my people are ready to march on Skaikru and Trikru any moment, to right a wrong they think your people have made, and to pillage your supplies. They have been for over a week, and I’ve barely managed to hold them off. Because, if we do this, my people can’t war with yours. Not out of pettiness and kru politics, not for depleted resources, and not even if you betray me again.”

A line forms between Clarke’s brows. She’s turned fully towards him now, has given him her complete attention. “What?”

He sighs. “They’re restless, Clarke. And a king can only hold off an army for so long. Under Nia… We would have already destroyed Skaikru and Trikru. My warriors believe that, as her son, I will follow in her footsteps.” His stare is intense. “I won’t.”

“Why not?”

His teeth grind together. “Because unlike my mother, I have honor.”

Clarke stares at him, studies him, but it’s different than when Echo or his royal advisors do it. She’s looking for hope. For a reason to believe him. She’s not trying to see Nia’s hunger for power in him. She’s just trying to see him as he is.

That strange relief blooms in his chest once more.

“Why didn’t you say this sooner?” Clarke asks, and the relief is ruined by the worried knit of her brows.

Roan manages a chuckle, dry and short. “Would you have agreed to a marriage alliance sooner?”

“No.”

“That’s why.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, such a familiar sight now. For being so young, she is brave to always face him down like this. “That’s bullshit, Roan. That’s – _fuck_. if your army wants to destroy my people, I have a right to know. I _need_ to warn them.”

“You won’t need to warn them if we can put a stop to it before it even starts.” Can’t she see that?

“Oh, and marriage would do that?” The sarcasm in her tone is irritating, to say the least. Roan’s patience has worn thin. He’s already told her how his people work, but she refuses to understand, to listen.

The relief is temporary, replaced yet again by disappointment. Can no one see what he’s trying to do?

“Yes.” It’s almost a growl, so he checks his tone. “It would. And the longer we debate this, the more likely my army will defy me and annihilate your people and take your precious medications before there’s enough for all the Coalition, not just Azgeda.”

“So you’re forcing me to marry you now?”

Roan shakes his head, heaves an angry sigh. It’s already been a long day, and arguing in circles with Clarke isn’t making it any better. He stares at her, hard, and hopes he gets his point across. “I’ve already told you – you have a choice in this. I’m not forcing you to do anything. I’m offering you a way to save your people, to save _more_ than just your people. Maybe if you listened, you’d understand that.”

And he leaves. Snatches his crown off the table inside and strides out of the throne room, feeling her eyes on his back the whole time.

000

Clarke hates it: she wants to see Bellamy. To talk to him, ask him for his advice, even though she already knows what he’ll say: _To hell with the marriage alliance. Warn Arkadia and prepare for war_.

They have more bullets than Azgeda does warriors. Roan has to know this, doesn’t he?

But having more blood on her hands, more nightmares in her head… No. She doesn’t want a war. She’s so tired of death following her everywhere, haunting her every decision. She’s so _tired_. Ever since they landed in that dropship, she’s had to make the hard decisions. She’s had to see so many things that she’ll never be able to scrub from her mind.

She wants peace.

Still, she wants to see Bellamy, too. It goes against Roan’s orders, and after thoroughly pissing him off earlier, Clarke doesn’t want to make a bad situation worse.

But standing from her balcony… she can see, two down, where his is located. If she can just make it across…

A breeze pushes her hair in front of her face. The sun is nearly down, now, and the city below is being lit with torches. They look like tiny fireflies at this distance. So trying to crawl across two balconies, this high up, would be stupid, right? Just for a conversation?

Right.

But Clarke’s going to do it anyway.

000

He’s half asleep when he hears a knock on his balcony door. It opens before Bellamy can say anything; he shoots upright in his bed, sheets falling from his chest, and gapes at his intruder.

Clarke. Of course, it’s Clarke. Who else is determined – no _stupid_ – enough to get in through _his balcony_?

“Jesus, Clarke – are you serious right now?” He’s standing before he realizes it, and it doesn’t take long for him to remember he’s half-naked. Clarke’s staring at his chest like she’s never seen it before, which definitely isn’t true… is it? A thought for another time.

He doesn’t make a move to put a shirt on.

Instead, he swipes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Tell me you didn’t just jump over two balconies… thirty floors up in the air.”

She tears her eyes away from his chest and gives him a tiny smile. “Fine, I won’t tell you.”

“God.” He sends a prayer up to whatever deity might actually give a shit about him. _Please,_ please _, let Clarke stop making so many ridiculous decisions_.

Still, he knows it’s fruitless. No god could keep Clarke from doing what she wants.

Shifting on her feet, Clarke awkwardly crosses her arms over her chest and looks anywhere but at Bellamy. “We need to talk.”

They do. He’s been asking to see her the entire day, to absolutely no avail. Then he demanded to see Roan, who never bothered to show up. He’s just a prisoner kept in a prettier cage.

“Has he hurt you?” is the first thing that flies from his mouth. He can’t help it. Bellamy’s been haunted all day by what Roan could be doing to Clarke. Or Echo – he doesn’t trust Echo a bit, anymore. She had taken him hostage, after all.

Clarke furrows her brows. “No, of course not. You know he’s not like that, Bellamy.”

“I know he _wasn’t_ like that. I don’t know what the hell he’s like, now.”

The princess studies him carefully. “Has he hurt _you?_ ” Her eyes fall to his chest again, his arms, but this time he sees the healer in her seeking out injury. When she finds none, she still waits for him to answer.

“No. You shouldn’t be worrying about me. I’m much more worried about what he has in store for _you_.”

“He doesn’t have anything ‘in store’ for me,” she says, a bit harsher than Bellamy would’ve expected. Clearing her throat, she continues, “That’s why I need to talk to you, actually. He told me something today. And it’s not good.”

“Of course it’s not.”

“I’m serious, Bellamy.”

“So am I.” Bellamy crosses the room to the water pitcher, suddenly needing to do something with his hands. Anger rises in his chest again – at Roan, Azgeda, Echo. At Clarke, for coming here to begin with. “He’s trying to _marry_ you. He’ll probably say just about anything to get you to agree.”

Clarke doesn’t bother to defend Roan again, and Bellamy’s glad for it. He pours two glasses of water, hands her one. She accepts but hardly even notices she has it.

“He said his army is restless. They’re ready to march on Skaikru and Trikru, even if he tells them not to. They’re out for blood, and they want to take what medications we have left. There wouldn’t be any for the other twelve clans – just Azgeda. It’s not just our people at risk, anymore.”

Bellamy sets the glass down. Clenches his fists. “And you believe him?”

“Yes.”

Shit. As much as he hates Roan right now… Bellamy trusts Clarke’s judgement. “Then what do we do?”

“That’s why I needed to see you. I… The marriage alliance. It would stop any of that from happening. I just have to agree.”

“Like hell you do.” They’ve been given bad choices before – this isn’t any different. They can find a better option. One that doesn’t involve Clarke being married off like she’s not even human. “We’ll figure something else out. We just need to get someone to Arkadia, warn them about an attack, hide the meds somewhere safe…”

“I’ve already thought of that. But there’s no one – and I can’t get you out of here. And besides… I’m sick of war, Bellamy. I’m tired of people dying. Aren’t you?”

His gut twists. Three hundred Trikru warriors died because of him. Because he went along with Pike, thought that war was the only way. Not a single day passes that he doesn’t think of it. Of the way Octavia looked at him. Like he was a monster. 

Is a monster.

He closes the space between him and Clarke. They’re only inches away, and as usual, he has the urge to pull her into his arms, shield her from having to do all this on her own.

She’s not on her own. Not this moment. They’re supposed to do things _together_.

“I’m not letting you marry yourself off just to save us, Clarke. You’ve already done so much. I’m not gonna let that happen.”

Clarke stares up at him, her lips pursed in worry, like she wishes this was true. But they both know Bellamy can’t do shit while he’s locked up in this room.

It scares him. No – it _terrifies_ him.

Setting the glass of water aside, Clarke surprises him by pulling him in for a hug. He doesn’t hesitate – he wraps his arms around her, holds her close. She presses her cheek against his bare chest and it feels right. This feels right.

“Thank you,” she breathes against him. He presses his eyes shut and clenches his jaw. She sounds so resigned. Like she’s already made a decision. “Thank you, Bellamy.” When she pulls away, her eyes are watery. She offers him a tiny smile, glances at the door. “I have to go. But I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“You’d better not use the balcony again, Clarke, or so help me God.”

The tiny smile morphs into a smirk. She says nothing, just leaves the way she came in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this has been 1000 percent angst, and likely still will be, but we are finally moving on to another big plot arc in the next chapter, and nearing the end of part one. Part two will be longer than part one, and part three will be very interesting. (:   
> Please comment/review!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait - I'm trying to get back into a post-once-a-week schedule.

The sun is far past its apex in the sky the next day when Clarke begins to grow restless. Roan should have sent for her by now – they need to finish talking about an alliance, to do _something_ before his people defy him and march on Arkadia. But hours have gone by and she’s heard nothing. When she had ventured out of her room earlier, she merely found the throne room’s doors sealed shut, two towering Azgeda guards standing in front of it.

More time has passed since then. Time that can’t be wasted doing whatever the king is doing.

After pacing her room far too many times to count, Clarke decides to leave and heads straight for the closed throne room. The guards in front of the doors – the same from earlier – glare down at her, expecting her to run away at the sight of their hatred for her and her kind. But she holds her ground, cants her chin, and demands, “Open the doors. I’m here to see the king.”

“The king isn’t taking visitors,” the guard on the left says; his accent is thicker than Roan’s or Echo’s. Gruff. His face is not masked, like most warriors, but painted white with black around the eyes – like a skull. “Leave, sky girl.”

“I am Wanheda,” Clarke says crisply, feeling irritation bubble in her chest. She uses her voice the way Lexa had: as a weapon and a warning. “And you will tell him that I need to see him. _Now_.”

The warrior shifts on his feet, his gaze growing uncertain. He looks to his comrade, who merely stares back at him as if to say: _Let the king deal with this._

Finally, the first warrior knocks loud and hard on the door before opening it.

“ _Ain Azplan_ ,” he says, looking at someone Clarke can’t see inside. “ _Wanheda gaf shish op in yu.”_ [My king, Wanheda wants to speak with you.]

A familiar, gravelly voice answers. “ _Min em op_.” [Let her in]

The warrior bows his head. Although his glare intensifies, he opens the door wider for Clarke to pass through. She uncomfortably brushes past him, but keeps her head up.

When the door closes behind her, she realizes why it’s been sealed all day. Roan stands in the center of the room, a hand on the pommel of a longsword fastened to his hip and a scowl settled deep on his lips. His royal advisors stand around him and a wide table – the same table they used that first day to speak over – with a map of an unfamiliar territory on it. As Clarke steps further in, ignoring a blatant glower from Echo at Roan’s right, she reads the words _Azgeda_ scrawled at the top left of the map.

Feeling the tension in the room rise, and unfriendly eyes turn towards her, Clarke looks only to Roan. “Has something happened?”

He peels his glacial eyes from the map to look back at her. His frown doesn’t lessen, but at least it isn’t intended for her. If he were to ever look at her like that… well, she wouldn’t want to be in the same room as him, not to mention stuck in the same tower. He looks murderous.

“Yes,” he grits out. Placing his palms flat on the table, he bends over it and examines it once more – his eyes straying to one place in particular, marked in red. “One of our villages was attacked in the night. A massacre. Over fifty dead, including twelve children.”

“Sire,” Echo warns, glancing first at Roan before she turns her suspicious stare on Clarke. “She is not Azgeda.”

“ _Shof op_ , Echo,” Roan growls. [Silence, Echo.] “Take a patrol. See if you can find any survivors. I want to know if this was Trikru.”

Echo remains still for a moment, but Clarke knows the spy would never disobey her king. She gives a terse nod and shoulders past Clarke, calling for a few members of the royal guard to join her.

Clarke cautiously approaches the table, taking Echo’s place. She doesn’t miss the way the Azgeda advisors eye her, but in this moment, she doesn’t much care. “A massacre? And you think Trikru traveled to Azgeda to do it? Why? That’s almost a hundred miles.”

Roan turns to her sharply. Anger lines his every muscle; it vibrates off of him. Clarke has to refrain from taking a step back – she can’t look weak in front of anyone from Azgeda. Not now, not ever. “Why do you think?”

“They wouldn’t risk my negotiations with you to carry out a massacre,” Clarke states firmly, glancing at the map again. She’s never known what Azgeda looks like, how large it is – but from the drawing before her, she can tell it’s massive. The red mark, where she assumes the massacre took place, is just one small circle on a backdrop of white and gray. Ice and snow. “They know I’m here, Roan. I left instructions with my people to inform Indra and the others. Right now… everyone should be working on medication production. Even Trikru. They know that’s what you want.”

“ _Azplan_ ,” one of the advisors interjects, speaking to his king but frowning at Clarke. “We cannot trust the words of Skaikru. You _know_ this, sire.”

Roan’s head whips around to face his advisor so quickly that Clarke thinks of him as a snake, in that moment. Ready to strike, to sink his fangs into anything. Anyone. “Yu don no shish ai op, laik in. [You don’t speak to me like that.]” His body is rigid; he regards the remaining royal advisors with a cold stare. “Get out. _Now_.”

Not another word is spoken. The advisors leave, though begrudgingly, casting Clarke hard eyes all the while.

She says exactly what they’re thinking: “They think I’m also responsible for this.”

Roan doesn’t sugarcoat anything. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He grunts. “To stall the marriage alliance. Or to stop it completely.”

Clarke makes a face. “Or maybe _your_ people would go that far to stop the marriage alliance. They despise me, Roan.”

She regrets saying it as soon as she does. Now that anger does focus on her, and she nearly shudders at the sight. In times like these, Roan is not her friend. He’s a king. An ally, maybe. But not her friend.

“My people wouldn’t disobey their king.”

“You said just yesterday that they would.” Clarke holds his intense stare despite wanting to shrink back from it. “So which is it? They would or they wouldn’t?”

Roan growls. That’s the best way to describe the noise he makes at the back of his throat. He turns on his heel and paces, stopping just before the throne.

Clarke holds very still. Has she crossed a line already? Is the unshakeable man she knew no longer, or is something more at work here? She doesn’t voice her growing number of questions. Just waits and watches Roan’s spine go more and more rigid.

“You’re right,” he finally allows. His voice is so quiet she strains to hear him. But then, again, “You’re right.” Louder. “But my people would never do something like this.” He turns and faces Clarke, his eyes full of an emotion that is not quite rage and is not quite sadness. “Twelve children were slaughtered, Clarke. The youngest only saw four winters.”

 _A four year old_. Clarke closes her eyes and digests that. When she was four years old, she’d been in a daycare on the Ark while her parents worked. Playing with refurbished toys, learning about the Earth, never once afraid for her life.

Earth will never live up to her expectations, she realizes. It is harsh here. Even in its beauty, it is unforgiving.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all she can think to say as the silence stretches on between them. She opens her eyes and Roan is still staring at her, but he’s harder to read. “I… What can I do?”

He pauses. Assesses her, like he doesn’t quite know what she’s asking. Finally, he releases a long breath and the tension lining his body goes with it. “You think you understand these clans,” he says wearily, “but you don’t. Your people have been here hardly a year. Trikru isn’t as innocent as you think.”

Clarke allows a nod. “But Azgeda isn’t as harsh as I think, either. Right?”

He says nothing.

“Roan.” Clarke takes a step forward, stops. Considers her words, the map with the red circle, the thought of a four year old never growing up. “Roan,” she begins again. “Do you trust me at all? You want me to marry you – so can you trust me?” Blue eyes meet blue-green at her supplication. His stare is unwavering. Much like the rest of him.

After several strained moments, Roan gives the slightest tilt of his chin. “Yes.”

Clarke can’t quite describe how she feels about this. Something between uncertainty and relief and _need_. “I – okay. Okay. Then can you consider that Trikru might not be responsible for this?”

“And consider that my own people are, instead?”

“No – that’s not –“She cuts herself off. “Azgeda and Trikru aren’t the only clans who wouldn’t want an alliance between us.”

“No one else knows that we’re negotiating this. Only my closest advisors and yours.”

Clarke stares at the doors, thoughtful. “That might not be true.”

“You think there’s a traitor among us?”

She worries her lip between her teeth and things of all the warriors that have passed by her since she’s entered Polis. How easy it would be to look Azgedan with face paint, a skull, furs. “I think it’s possible.”

Roan also eyes the door, the walls, everything around him. He blinks and his jaw tightens. “Then our lives just became that much more difficult.”

000

Clarke leaves the throne room after a few more minutes of quiet discussion and a promise to pen a letter to Kane, who she says she trusts the most in Arkadia. Interesting, Roan had thought to himself, that she does not mention her mother.

Roan already feels apprehension growing deep in his gut that distracts him from pursuing the thought further. Paranoia intensifies that the walls have eyes and ears. That someone close to him or to the sky princess may be responsible for the deaths of so many of his people.

Of course, it’s not the only possibility. Still Roan can’t help but trust Clarke when she tells him that as much as he and his people may despise Trikru, Trikru may not be to blame.

The truth will surface in time. Roan understands that much about the world, now. Nearly thirty-two winters have taught him so much.

With Echo gone for at least a few days, Roan is left with his personal guards, Aurra and Neo. The pair are twins, and they have as much of a secret language with each other as they do with Roan. It had come, Roan supposed, from years of the three of them playing around the palace. Long before the twins had become Seconds, and before Roan had understood the price of being royalty. 

Still, he trusts them with his life. More importantly, he trusts them with Clarke’s.

If Clarke truly believes there is a traitor in their midst, she needs to be protected.

Roan stands from the throne and pushes his way out the doors, destination already in mind. Clarke will not be happy to have two shadows, but Roan is more concerned over her safety than her happiness.

He finds the twins in the sparring room, unsurprisingly. When Echo is in Polis and nearly a constant presence at Roan’s side, the pair dedicate more time to training the other royal guards. It is understood throughout the guard that Echo has the talent, cunning, and skill of three Azgedan warriors. It is also understood that it’s best to stay out of the spy’s way lest one wants to quietly lose one’s head.

In the practice room, Aurra is parrying swings from two other guards, young and eager to learn, while Neo shouts at their mistakes. The matches are short. Aurra spins this way and that, graceful as the pumas that roam the forests outside Polis, quick as the snakes Sankru charm for venom. In less than five seconds, she’s disarmed both young men. One of the boys’ swords clatters at Roan’s feet, and he arches a brow at it. The weapon is sharp, undoubtedly lethal. Nothing at all like the dull practice swords hanging beside him.

“I see your time in Polis hasn’t softened your ways,” Roan says to Aurra, glancing knowingly at her brother on the sidelines.

The four guards all dip low in a bow to Roan, who waves the gesture away. After straightening, Aurra gives Roan a sharp grin. “The warmer climes do not soften me, _azplan_ , unlike my counterpart.” Her grin turns on her brother, who rolls his eyes.

“Enjoying the freedom of not wearing thick furs in battle does not make me soft, sister,” Neo says, as if he has said this very thing a thousand times already. “It makes me quicker to slice someone’s throat.”

Roan smirks but cuts off any further remarks. The siblings needle each other ceaselessly when not on duty, and Roan’s point needs to be made quickly. “Echo has left for the village of Quehanna.” At the mention of the spymaster, the two straighten and nod. They are back on duty. “You’ll be Wanheda’s personal guards for the foreseeable future. At her door, in the halls of this tower, when she leaves. To be with her at all times. Understood?”

“ _Azplan_?” Aurra’s smile has long disappeared. Now she’s the warrior feared all throughout Azgeda for her skill with a blade. “If Echo is away, who will accompany you?”

“I’ll worry about that myself,” Roan says, knowing well that neither Aurra nor Neo would appreciate the thought of him protecting himself. But given the situation, it is necessary. There is no one else he trusts. “Do you understand your orders?”

Neo steps forward. “Yes, _ain azplan_. Wanheda is safe with us.”

Roan nods and leaves without another word. Yes, he thinks to himself. Aurra and Neo are the only ones he can trust with Clarke’s life, other than himself.

000

When Clarke emerges from her room later that day, she’s wondering who Roan might trust enough as a rider to take her letter to Kane. She doesn’t expect the pair of guards, oddly identical in a way Clarke can’t quite place, to be standing outside her door at attention.

Clarke pauses midway to closing her door. “Does the king need something?” She has to remind herself to call Roan ‘the king’ when she isn’t alone with him. She imagines his people wouldn’t see their familiarity at all appropriate or respectful.

The woman on the right, standing slightly taller than the man, shakes her head. “No, Wanheda. My name is Aurra and this is Neo. We are your personal guards.”

A frown settles on Clarke’s lips. “Sorry – what?”

The man, Neo, smiles at her. It highlights a scar that runs from his hairline, through his eyebrow, and down his chin. The woman, Clarke realizes, has an identical scar on the other side of her face. “We have orders from the king,” the man explains. “We are not to leave your side, unless you are in your rooms alone.” Neo glances at the letter in Clarke’s hand. “And we were told you’d have a message to send back to your people of the utmost importance. I can take it to Roan’s trusted rider, if you wish.”

Suspicion immediately creeps up on Clarke. After determining that there could be a traitor in their midst that very day, this all seemed too… _wrong_. Why wouldn’t Roan tell her she has guards, now? Was this unknown traitor trying to intercept her communications, too?

“Where’s Roan?” Clarke demands quickly. She almost winces when she realizes that she’s already slipped up and called Roan by name, but if the guards are offended, they don’t show it. “I’d like to see him.”

Aurra nods. “He is in his rooms, Wanheda. He has been meeting with his council most of the day.”

Clarke doesn’t bother to respond. She pushes past the pair and struts down the hallway, panic growing in her belly as she clutches the letter tighter in her hand. The presence of the two Azgeda soldiers is unignorable; they follow only a foot behind her, their steps matching her own.

When Clarke reaches Roan’s rooms at the end of the hallway, she doesn’t spare a glance for either man posted outside his doors. Instead, before they can intercept her, she flings them open and steps in. The hum of conversation ceases immediately, and for the second time that day, Clarke feels the weight of many pairs of eyes staring her down.

She only looks at Roan. “Everyone out,” she orders, using what her brain has dubbed her ‘Lexa voice’. When no one moves, she growls, “ _Now_.”

Heads shift to Roan, who nods at his council to leave. Clarke expects the irritation on his face, but she doesn’t expect the slight glint of amusement in his eyes, which only serves to ramp up her panic and uncertainty.

When the doors shut quietly behind her, leaving Clarke alone with Roan in what appears to be his greeting room, Clarke releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“I was going to send a rider to deliver this to Kane,” she begins, uncertain, and holds up the letter, “but when I left my room, two guards were there. They said you ordered them to be there, but then they tried to take this themselves, and I – “Clarke stops and pulls at the ends of her hair, heaving out a frustrated sigh. “Is the Tower not safe?”

Roan leans back in his chair. “Calm down,” he commands, but it’s gentler than she expects from him. “And sit down, Clarke. I should have told you sooner, but I’ve been caught up with my council.”

Clarke stares down at the Azgedan king, uncertainty quickly morphing to bitter surprise. “You mean, you _did_ assign them as my personal guards and didn’t bother telling me?”

Roan’s lips form a thin line. Any amusement he’d had when she had walked in is long gone. “Clarke.” His voice is firmer now. A sign that she is toeing the line between speaking to her ally and speaking to a king. “Sit down.”

“No.”

Her frustration is mounting quickly. Is he trying to undo the little progress they made today?

Roan sighs. He looks at her the way one looks at a petulant child. Resigned to have to deal with a tantrum.

It only serves to piss Clarke off more.

“Aurra and Neo are there for your protection. I should have told you sooner, but I’ve been dealing with other matters.” He lifts his hands to gesture at the room, as if that says enough.

Clarke is barely biting back her anger. “I thought we made progress trusting each other today.” The accusation permeates her tone. “You didn’t even ask me if I _want_ guards. You get to make that decision for me, just like you get to decide that I can’t see Bellamy, and that I have to marry you to avoid all-out war.”

For the second time in one day, Roan’s temper flares. He stands, a fist on the table, and glowers at Clarke. “There could be a traitor among us. I’m making sure you’re protected.” His fist clenches so hard that his knuckles turn bone white. “I have not decided you should marry me. I have offered the choice of a marriage alliance that is ultimately _your_ decision. As for Bellamy, he’ll only cloud your judgement.”

Oh, Clarke is seeing red. She has to physically restrain herself from crumpling the parchment. “Offered the choice? You’re holding Bellamy hostage while you try to convince me that _marriage_ is the only way to keep your people from killing mine!”

“Lower your voice,” Roan demands, his eyes flashing. “Or do you want all of the guards in the Tower to hear this?”

“Why the _hell_ should I care?”

Roan is on her in a flash, crowding her personal space. She isn’t even surprised – she had been pushing him to this point, hadn’t she? She knows the man only has so much patience, even when it comes to her. “Clarke,” he says, his low baritone rumbling over her name and sending shivers down her spine. His breath tickles her face. When had she backed up to the door? “I will not continue to argue in circles with you. If you want to leave, then leave. Warn your people. I’m not stopping you and I would never want to. Believe it or not, I am trying to _help_.”

“Then actually help!” She goes as far as to shove at his chest, but he doesn’t even budge an inch. It makes her feel weaker. “Don’t just make unilateral decisions and conveniently forget to tell me. If you want to help, then _work_ with me. Together. Stop treating me like some child you have to guide to the right choice!”

“Stop acting like it!”

They are both surprised by his tone. Roan blinks down at her and Clarke thinks, for just a second, that she sees regret in his blue-green eyes. He backs away from her, finally letting her breathe, and she feels… drained. So much has happened in such a short period of time. She’s tired.

She misses Lexa.

Slumping back against the door, Clarke stares at her feet. She wonders what Wells would have done differently, if he had lived long enough to be in her position. What Bellamy might say right now. What her mother would think.

When she looks up, Roan is sitting again, but he appears just as tired. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling some strands out from its knot, and rubs at his eyes. “Clarke.” His tone is significantly gentler. Placating, even. Like he needs her to understand something. “Tell me what you want. If I’m being some tyrant to you, then – tell me. What would you have me do differently?”

Clarke’s shoulders droop. “Release Bellamy.”

“I can’t.”

“God, and why _not_?”

“Clarke.” Gentle again. “Releasing Bellamy would make me look weak to my people. The weaker I look, the more likely they are to disobey me.” _And slaughter your people_ , is the unspoken addition to that sentence. Clarke reads it in his eyes.

“Fine. Then help me figure out something other than a marriage alliance.” She’s grasping at straws and she knows it. Roan is resolute in this, but she still doesn’t understand why.

He shakes his head, but it holds none of his earlier ire. “I’ve gone through every other scenario. Nothing else would hold. For a few months, maybe. But war between our people is inevitable.”

For a moment, just a moment, Clarke entertains the idea of simply going to war with Azgeda. There would be heavy losses on each side. Even with their guns and bullets, Clarke isn’t sure Arkadia would be able to secure a victory. She isn’t sure of much of anything right now.

She crosses to the table and finally sits.

“You should have told me about the guards.” She’s resigned. It’s not a good feeling, but she can’t keep up the fight. Not right now.

Roan settles his hands on the table. “Yes. I should have.”

“If you – ugh. If you really want to _marry_ me,” Clarke struggles to get the words out, “then you have to treat me as your equal.”

Roan’s eyes bore into hers. So much that it’s almost unsettling. Her stomach flips. “I would never want anything less.”

Clarke is trying to process his expression when someone barges into the room, much the way she had.

She turns and realizes it’s one of Roan’s advisors. A man with startlingly white hair for his young age and scars disappearing into his loosely buttoned shirt. “ _Azplan_ ,” the man bows to Roan, low and deep. He meets Clarke’s gaze. “Wanheda. I apologize for the intrusion. I fear I must bear the news – an urgent message has been sent from Skaikru.”

Clarke sits up straighter. Unease coils in her stomach. “What?”

“When?” Roan asks from behind her, his voice far steadier but no less surprised.

“Just now, sire.” The white-haired man hands a parchment to Clarke, trepidation clear on his face. As if Wanheda will strike him down the moment she reads this note. “The Skairippa delivered this herself.”

Clarke’s gaze immediately shifts from the letter to the man before her. “Octavia is here?”

“Yes, Wanheda.”

“Bring her to me.”

That the man doesn’t even look for confirmation from Roan speaks volumes. He ducks out of the room, eager to be away while Clarke reads what he has given her.

She breaks the seal on the parchment and quickly scans the scrawled note. Her lips fold into a deep frown and her heart beats fast. Nausea rolls over her, and it’s all Clarke can do to stay in her chair. She grips the armrest as if holding on for dear life.

“What’s happened?” Roan asks.

Clarke glares at the floor. “I need a horse,” she says, her tone brooking no room for argument. “And Bellamy. _Now_.”

“Clarke, tell me what’s happened.”

She doesn’t. Instead, she stands and flings the paper at him. He scoops it up and scans it. Roan’s jaw locks.

“Fuck.”

“That’s all you have to say? Your people torture and kill eight of mine, and that’s it?”

He’s standing before she can blink. In front of her before she can open her mouth again. “No. We’ll get you a horse. And Bellamy. But I’m going with you.”

“My people will shoot you on sight.”

His gaze is intense once more. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you to not let them.”

“Maybe I _should_ let them. Did you read it, Roan? Eight men and women. Mutilated. If we hadn’t known who was out on that patrol, we wouldn’t have been able to even identify their bodies.” She feels unsteady. Like the world around her has become surreal. _Tortured beyond recognition_ , the letter had said. _We demand Clarke and Bellamy be released to Arkadia_.

Roan’s hands come up and settle on her shoulders. And, strangely enough, it helps. It grounds her. Maybe he’s not exactly her friend, not like this, but he is her ally. The way he looks at her says as much.

She’s not alone in this.

“We’ll head to Arkadia immediately,” he assures her. “And I’ll find out who among my people did this. I promise you.”

Clarke finds no insincerity in his claim. She grabs his arm, more to hold herself up than anything. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finallllllllllly we are out of the Tower and heading towards some clashing between Roan and Bellamy, and more development between Clarke and Roan. Yay!


	6. Chapter 6

Clarke is a silent, stoic presence at Roan’s side. Her horse is white; a stark contrast to all the black she wears. She had accepted the proffered clothes the Skairippa brought, but they were dark Trikru leathers and armor. Were the situation different, Roan would be admiring the way Clarke wears the warrior’s dress, despite her obvious discomfort. But the situation is tense, and Roan can only absently appreciate the way the clothing has transformed Clarke into a proper Wanheda.

He thinks, briefly, of commissioning the young woman a set of armor to match her standing when they return to Polis. _If_ she will return to Polis with him.

Behind Roan and Clarke, the Blake siblings travel in an equally stiff silence. Roan is familiar with each sibling for different reasons. Bellamy’s devotion to Clarke, of course, is the chief impression Roan has of the younger man. But the Skairippa is more elusive. Roan had first heard about the girl from Neo. How she had adapted to Trikru’s culture with startling ease. Something about a forbidden romance with Indra’s second that Roan had had no patience to listen to. Still, unlike Bellamy’s almost petulant refusal to speak to anyone and to glare at Roan’s spine the entire trip, the female Blake is an uneasy species of silence.

Roan takes note.

Their small traveling party is flanked on all sides by royal guardsmen and women. Neo and Aurra pick up the front and rear respectively, determining the party’s pace.

Beside him, Clarke shifts impatiently. “Can we speed this up?” she asks, her question directed to Neo ahead of them. “At this rate, we won’t make it to Arkadia until tomorrow.”

Neo wisely does not further Clarke’s ire by looking to Roan for guidance. The warrior shrugs easily, the muscles in his shoulders and arms visible now that the guardsman has traded out his fur-lined armor for more temperate-appropriate clothing. “My apologies, Wanheda. No matter what we do, we will not make it to your people until tomorrow. The Skairippa’s horse is spent from her ride to Polis, and regardless, we do not know what threats lie in wait for us on this path.”

Clarke frowns. She has refused to look at Roan since their departure, even when he is so obviously looking at her. “Then we ride through the night.”

Neo manages a laugh at this. It’s an aspect of the warrior that Roan has always appreciated – his unerring ability to deal with the constant stoicism around him. “That, too, would be unwise, great Wanheda. We are not all Commanders of Death. I suspect we will have to make camp after the moon crosses the three great stars.” He nods upwards at the darkening sky. “We shall keep our rest short, if it pleases you, my lady.”

“It would,” Clarke replies shortly. “Thank you.”

“It is my duty to serve you,” Neo reminds her, but his words are met with more silence.

Roan sighs. He doesn’t mean to draw attention to himself – not at this moment – but of course, that’s when he does. The older Blake sibling huffs behind him, clearly having been waiting for the opportune moment to air his temper at Roan.

The Azgedan king grips the pommel of his sword in preparation.

“Are we boring you, your majesty?” Bellamy asks, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Are eight people’s deaths that inconvenient for you?” Bellamy barks out a laugh that is all bitterness and no humor. “Sorry it has to get in the way of you manipulating Clarke into marrying you.”

Ahead of Roan, Neo almost stops. The warrior’s shoulders are tense, as are all the other guardsmen and women around Roan. It is Roan, instead, who brings his horse to a halt, forcing the party to stop along with him. His horse stamps its hooves uncertainly in the damp dirt beneath them, giving a quiet whinny.

Perhaps it’s Roan’s frustration that the marriage alliance isn’t going smoothly, or that a faction of his people disobeyed him and may have started a war he’s desperately trying to avoid, or that Bellamy Blake has always grated his nerves, but Roan is not above answering one blow with another.

At least Clarke finally looks at him, her eyes full of warning. _Don’t start anything_ , they say. He is about to heed her cautionary look.

Then Bellamy continues.

“You and your people are slowing us down. Arkadia needs us. If you think of Clarke as a friend at all, you’ll let us go. _Alone_.”

Something in Roan snaps. An almost icy calm washes over him, but he knows this feeling all too well to associate it with something benign. He understands when he is the calm before the storm.

He locks his jaw and stares at Clarke while the Skairippa admonishes her brother and the soldiers around them all shift uneasily.

“Leave it alone,” Clarke finally warns, her eyes flicking to Bellamy but mostly intent on Roan. “We have too much ground to cover for this.”

That shuts the boy up. Roan grits his teeth and pushes his horse forward, and the travelers are once again on the move. No one speaks another word until they make camp, over halfway to Arkadia, in the middle of the night.

000

Clarke almost doesn’t dismount her horse when Neo announces their campsite for the remainder of the night. She stares down the path that leads to Arkadia and wonders if, while the others are just settling back on their feet, she could urge her horse into a sprint so no one could catch her.

She needs to know who was on that patrol.

A hand on her arm pulls her away from her dark thoughts. It’s Bellamy. His dark brown eyes peer up at her knowingly. “You’d really leave me behind, princess?” The question is supposed to be lighthearted, but Clarke’s heart tugs painfully at the thought. Leave it to Bellamy Blake to know exactly what to say to keep her from doing something stupid.

She accepts his help dismounting and lets one of Roan’s guards take her horse. Bellamy holds onto her hand a smidge longer than necessary, but she doesn’t mind. The callouses on his palm are rough and familiar. Everything else in the world has become so foreign.

As the pair head towards the fire Aurra has started, Clarke catches Roan’s intense gaze on her.

She forces herself to look away.

Half an hour later, with a belly full of rabbit that Neo had caught along the way to the campsite, Clarke feels exhaustion creep upon her. She stares up at the stars twinkling above them and feels the weight of the night sky push down on her.

It’s almost too much. And Clarke knows that what she discovers upon her return to Arkadia tomorrow may have the ability to break her.

She has kept her head up for so long now.

A shoulder nudges her own. Bellamy, still. He had barely let a foot of space remain between them after they’d dismounted the horses and that has not changed. He raises his brows at her questioningly, but Clarke just offers a thin smile.

“Wanheda,” Roan poses her name as a question. He sits across the fire, beside Octavia and Neo, with his elbows resting on his knees. “Would you care for a walk?”

Clarke doesn’t look at him. Her chest tightens, and for a moment, she thinks of all the oxygen being sucked out of the Ark.

“No,” she says. “I’m going to catch a few hours of sleep.” To Neo, she says, “Wake us in four hours. We can’t afford to waste more time than that.”

The guard nods at her. Without a glance to anyone else, Clarke rises and heads into the cave towards the bedroll Aurra had set out for her. She feels the burn of Bellamy and Roan’s gazes on her back, and she does her best to ignore them.

000

When the group arrives in Arkadia the following day, they are greeted by barrels of guns, all pointed at Roan and his guards. The group is forced to stop a hundred feet away from Skaikru’s odd metal gates, makeshift and refurbished, while Marcus Kane and Clarke’s mother are escorted by an armed guard out to meet them.

Roan expected no less.

Now, however, he feels an uncertainty wash over him at the sight of so many Skaikru weapons prepared to kill him and his people. A single bullet could do it. The shooter wouldn’t even have to leave his or her safety from behind the fence.

Roan’s fingers tighten on the reins as he forces his back straighter in his saddle.

“Clarke,” Kane begins uncertainly, eyeing Roan as he addresses Wanheda. “What’s going on? Are you…?”

Roan understands the many implications behind the question. _Are you safe? Are you a prisoner?_ He feels a strange sort of offense at the thought that Clarke wouldn’t be safe with him.

Does no one see that he’s trying to keep her, her people, and his people safe? Alive?

“I got your message,” Clarke says, fingers worrying at the edge of her saddle. “Who was it?”

There is a long pause in which the two separate factions consider one another, wary and tense. Kane looks to Roan again, but the ambassador’s eyes are hard to read. Once his gaze settles on Wanheda, Kane says, “Three from Farm Station. Josie, Sarah, and Mitchell. Isaac, Michael, and Joan from Alpha. They were…” Kane sighs, glances at his feet. “They were learning the ropes from Harper and Nathan’s father. To become a new patrol.”

Roan can see Clarke’s face pale to a startling white. He almost dismounts so he can catch her should she fall, but Bellamy is already on the ground and at her side. The boy’s jaw is locked, his eyes enraged, and he’s holding Clarke’s hand tightly in his own. “Harper?” Roan knows by the way Bellamy says the unfamiliar name that this person is a friend. Was a friend. Devastation colors his tone. “And David Miller? You’re sure?”

Kane gives the young pair a pained look. “Yes.”

Clarke still holds her head up, but her shoulders have dropped and her eyes have become misty. “Where’s Nathan?”

“He’s…” Kane trails off again, but Clarke’s mother says in a steady voice, “Resting. He needs it.”

“Of course.” Clarke’s voice is weary.

There’s an uncomfortable stretch of silence. A single tear rolls down Wanheda’s cheek, which she hastily wipes away. Roan’s gut tightens unpleasantly at the sight. His jaw locks. He turns his intense stare onto Kane.

“Where were your people found?”

His raspy voice does little to ease the silence into something more comfortable. Kane meets Roan’s stare with surprising fire.

“East. About a mile out. They were mutilated.” This last word Kane spits with disgust, and Roan feels all eyes shift onto him. The Skaikru guards tighten their holds on their guns, their expressions barely subdued malice. “This is an act of war.”

At the mention of war, Roan’s guards tense upon their mounts. The moment is fragile, and Roan thinks, briefly, that all hell will break loose any second. But Clarke surprises him, as she always does.

“Roan isn’t the enemy,” she tells Kane. There’s a tremor in her voice, but she carries on regardless. “Dozens of his own people were slaughtered yesterday.”

Roan blinks. Why hadn’t he put two and two together? The Azgedan deaths, the Skaikru deaths… It was too much to be coincidence.

Regardless, Kane gives Clarke a cautionary look. “As much as I hate to say it, you know better than anyone how people in power will do anything to stay in power, Clarke.”

Clarke’s frown deepens. “You think he’d have his own people killed?” Roan’s taken off guard by the anger in her tone. “The youngest was four, Kane. A child.”

Kane swallows thickly, glancing between Clarke and Roan. “That doesn’t mean – “

“I trust him.” The words that leave Wanheda’s lips stun all. She finally, finally, looks at Roan, and her blue eyes are clear and hard. She holds his gaze a moment longer before turning back to Kane. “They can camp outside the gates. But they’re staying until we figure this out.”

“Clarke…”

Clarke has none of it. She dismounts the white horse, Bellamy’s guiding hand on the small of her back, and squares off with the ambassador. “No one approaches them without me knowing,” she continues, as if Kane had not spoken at all. She turns to her mother. “I want to see Harper.”

And with that, Clarke, Bellamy, and Octavia are led back to Arkadia’s gates. Roan watches the blonde of her hair disappear just as the sun dawns.

000

Clarke isn’t sure how much time has passed with her knees clutched to her chest and her back against the metal wall of her room in Arkadia. She stares at her feet, blistered and red, but she only sees the cornflower blonde hair sticking out of the tarp in the Ark’s makeshift morgue. Abby had pleaded with Clarke not to lift the tarp, to look at her friend and her friend’s father one last time, but Clarke knew she had to.

She needed to understand just what someone was willing to do to prevent peace between Skaikru and Azgeda.

The door to her room quietly opens, but still, Clarke stares down at her feet.

“Thought you’d be asleep after the trip you’ve had,” Raven says casually, pushing the door open further so she can make her way inside. Clarke’s eyes shift to the brace on Raven’s leg. It looks new, more flexible than her old one. “But I guess I should’ve known better.”

Raven eases herself down onto Clarke’s untouched bed. They sit parallel one another, and Clarke lifts her chin to note the dark smudges around Raven’s eyes, the watery look of her brown irises.

“Looks like you could use some sleep, too.”

“Yeah, but then you could disappear on me again to go get hitched to some hot Azgeda royalty.” Raven smirks, and even Clarke manages a chuckle. “But seriously, Clarke.” Her eyes narrow. “Next time, warn a girl. I wasn’t sure I’d see you again. Not after…” Raven breaks her stare. Turns to fix the pillows beside her.

“I’m sorry, Rae. About Harper. I… I don’t even know what to say. It doesn’t feel real.”

Raven picks absently at a loose thread, a frown settling on her lips. “They wouldn’t let me see her.”

Clarke again flashes back to the last image of her friend, her face not belonging to the lively Harper but some macabre mask of Death. “It’s better to remember her as she was,” is all Clarke can manage.

The pair sit in silence for a while, neither feeling the need to talk. Clarke lets her fingers dance in the few rays of sunlight that shine down from the tiny window Raven had carved out for her eons ago, knowing she’ll have to check in with Roan sooner or later, but preferring later.

“Octavia said you don’t think Roan’s responsible for it,” Raven finally says, giving the blonde a questioning look. “Is that true?”

Clarke sighs. “Yes. He wouldn’t do something like this. And his own people were killed, too. There’s something more going on.”

“Other than him desperately wanting to marry you?” Raven asks with an arched brow.

Now, Clarke settles a glare on her friend. “Because he wants a marriage _alliance_. For our people. There’s a difference.”

Raven smirks and settles comfortably on Clarke’s bed, propping up her leg. “Is there? He could’ve chosen anyone else to do the deed with, but he chose you, Clarke. And I gotta say – not such a bad deal, all things considered.”

Clarke’s jaw nearly drops. “You think I should do it?” Raven would be the first person from the Ark to think so, if it were true. Not even Kane, the most diplomatic of all of them, supports the idea.

The mechanic’s smirk turns feral. “And have rights to that hunk of a man? Why _wouldn’t_ you do it?” Raven waggles her brows and Clarke can’t decide whether or not to laugh at her friend’s attempt to lighten the mood.

“I wouldn’t have _rights_ to him. It’s just political. He doesn’t look at me like that, anyway.” Clarke knows this. Roan barely considers her an ally most days. They are constantly butting heads, even if at the end of the day, they usually had each other’s backs. But whatever Raven is suggesting… as if the marriage would be anything more than an exchange of words and promises… it isn’t realistic.

Clarke lets herself entertain the thought, regardless. What would it be like, being married to Roan?

“Clarke,” Raven admonishes. “Do you seriously not see the way he looks at you? If you think his only motivation is political, you’re missing a huuuuuuge amount of what the rest of us already know.”

“What?” Clarke runs through her interactions with Roan in her head. It’s at least a far better distraction from her earlier thoughts, even if she knows Raven’s mindset is a bit skewed. “He’s never been anything but, well, ‘nice’ isn’t really the right word for it, but… civil. He’s very civil.”

Raven snorts. “Civil? I’m not sure what the past few days have been like, but I highly doubt ‘civil’ would describe any of them. That man radiates sexuality. You can’t say you haven’t noticed.” Raven arches a brow primly. “I wouldn’t believe you anyway.”

A blush colors Clarke’s cheeks. She sits up a bit straighter, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “I’d have to be blind to not notice,” she admits.

“Exactly.”

“But what I said stands.”

“Ugh!” Raven tosses her hands in the air. “This is about Bellamy, isn’t it?”

“What? No! What does Bellamy have to do with it?”

Raven rubs her hands over her eyes and lays back dramatically. “Oh my God. You don’t know how Roan feels about you, that’s one thing, I get it. But Bellamy? Really?”

Clarke looks away. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear for something to do with her hands. “Well, I mean. Yeah. There’s always been something there.”

“Is that ‘something’ why you aren’t more open to whatever’s going on with Roan?” Raven prods.

“No! There’d have to be something going on with Roan in the first place.” Clarke ignores Raven’s eyeroll. “Bellamy and I… I don’t know. After Mount Weather, I don’t think I could do it. Not anymore. There was a time…”

“But it’s passed,” Raven finishes for her, nodding. “Yeah. I know. Wish he’d get that through his skull, though.” Raven flops back onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling, biting her lip. The smirk slowly returns, and Clarke already has a frown on her face when the next question is posed. “But, you know, with the few years Roan has on you… He has to be pretty _experienced_ , right?”

Clarke groans and buries her face in her hands. “ _Raven_.”

“Just saying.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Harper, but I didn't plan for her to make any appearances in this fic.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait. Real life has been getting in the way of my writing time. I have the next chapter written (I had to split this in two), but it still needs to be edited.
> 
> Please leave a kudo or comment if you enjoy! It hard times lately and they make me smile. (: Thank you to everyone who has commented/left kudos/bookmarked. I'm definitely not abandoning this fic!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! A quick update! I appreciated all the continued interest in this story a lot, so I wanted to get you something sooner rather than later.

When Clarke finally decides she’s put it off long enough, she leaves her room to seek out the Ice Nation king. She pretends not to notice the odd looks her fellow Arkadians give her as she passes through the common areas. The whispers that follow on her heels. Small tidbits of conversation about marriage, the king, the enemy, and war. The stares and the words settle on Clarke’s shoulders, wearying her step as she emerges from the interior of the Ark and onto the path leading to the front gates.

Her heart starts pounding away in her chest when she sees the gate already open, her mother standing there with her arms crossed and her face pinched into an expression bred between anger and pain.

Clarke hurries over to see what damage has already been done and to prevent any more.

She rounds the gate fully, and the sight that greets her is almost comically absurd. Her mother, clad in jeans and a plaid jacket, squared off with the king of Azgeda. Roan towers over Abby, his impressively solid body at least a foot and a half taller and twice as wide. His sword is thankfully not on him, but his scarred face and Azgeda furs are a strange juxtaposition to Abby’s unblemished visage and disinfectant-cleansed hands. Clarke has clearly walked into the middle of a heated argument, which is, to absolutely no one’s surprise, about her.

Abby and Roan are too busy glaring at one another to even note Clarke’s presence.

“She’s a little girl,” Abby hisses at Roan, a reply to something Clarke had not heard, as Abby invades the king’s space with a deep scowl. “If you seriously think you can _trick_ her into doing your bidding– “

“I will not keep repeating myself,” Roan cuts Abby off in a short tone, his eyes flashing dangerously. But Clarke is surprised at how measured and careful his words are – Roan rarely tolerates anyone questioning him, let alone blatantly arguing with him in front of his warriors, who stare wide-eyed at the pair. “Clarke is a woman capable of making her own decisions. She’s led your people this far, and she has succeeded where even _you_ have failed.”

Clarke winces at his words, but she doesn’t disagree with him. She simply can’t. If she and Bellamy and Raven and the others hadn’t taken charge when they did, the old guard from the Ark would have driven everyone to war months ago. Her mother included.

Abby blinks up at the king, taken aback. But her anger does not relent. “She’s my _daughter_. I won’t see her just bargain her life away like – like _chattel_!”

“Mom,” Clarke interjects before anymore words can be exchanged. All eyes turn to her – Roan’s blue-green gaze burning and bright and almost terrifying, if she didn’t trust him as much as she does, and her mother’s deep brown worried and wet with unspent tears.

“Clarke,” her mother says, rubbing away the water building up in her eyes. “Go back inside. The king,” she spits this word derisively, “was just about to take his people and leave.”

Clarke looks to Roan, who hasn’t stopped watching her. His gaze is intense, and for a moment, she thinks about her conversation with Raven. Roan looks angry, yes. But he also looks possessive. For the first time, she can see it. Her chest feels unbearably tight.

“You’re leaving?” She hates how weak her voice sounds, but she can’t help it.

Roan’s stare intensifies. It’s as if he’s seeking something out from her, but she can’t figure out what. Finally, in his raspy voice, he says, “No. Not unless you ask me to.”

 _Not unless you ask me to_ says a lot, Clarke thinks. Or maybe she’s overthinking it. Maybe Raven has skewed _her_ vision now, and she’s reading into things that shouldn’t be read into. But it feels like the king of Ice Nation just gave her more power than he’s been willing to relent the past few days. The immediate power to turn him away, to return to her people, to stop these talks of a marriage alliance, to go to war.

Clarke is tired of war.

“I’d like you to stay,” she tells him, and she ignores the startled look her mother gives her from the corner of her eye. “If you will.”

Something shifts in his green-blue eyes. He considers her a moment longer and nods. “Of course.”

“ _Clarke_ – “her mother tries, but Clarke cuts Abby off with just a look.

“Mom. Please. We need to talk about the attacks. I can’t do that if you’re going to argue the whole time.”

“Clarke, I’m arguing because he’s clearly trying to trick you. Don’t you see? He wants to – to _marry_ you, and what? You didn’t agree, so now he wants to force your hand. Clarke, tell me you understand that,” Abby begs, her eyes glistening once more.

Clarke shakes her head. “No. There’s more to it. Please, mom. Let me work things out for myself.”

“I just – “Abby hesitates. It breaks Clarke, to see her mother so torn, but at the same time it gives her resolve. Her mother let her father die. Her mother let 100 children fall to the Earth. Her mother has been behind too many bad decisions to count. “I just… I love you, Clarke.”

Clarke offers her mother a small, watery smile. “I know, mom. I love you too.”

Abby takes one last look at Roan, who holds her stare unflinchingly. Abby’s dark eyes promise death and pain and all the things a mother would wish on someone who could hurt their child, and Clarke appreciates that. But Clarke’s relieved when Abby finally leaves, brushing past Clarke to return to the safety that lies inside the gates.

Clarke is left alone with Roan. She’s been left alone with him countless times before, but something about this moment is different. Heavier. She forces her eyes to meet his, and again, her chest feels too tight. Like her lungs don’t have enough room to breathe. His eyes are sharp upon her, but they’re gentle, too.

“I see where you get your fire from,” Roan finally says to break the silence, and Clarke manages a short laugh.

“A lot of people have made a less kind comparison,” Clarke admits.

Roan shrugs. “A lot of people are foolish.” He glances at the gates, his expression turning thoughtful. “Not many would challenge me like that. In front of my warriors, no less. Even before I became king.” His turquois eyes turn back to Clarke. “In fact, I believe I know of one other.” He smiles, and Clarke wonders at this moment between them, so unlike all the others they’ve had these past few days. This moment feels soft. Gentle. _Good_.

This moment makes her feel that Roan is, indeed, her friend, and not only her ally.

She wonders for what feels like the hundredth time at Raven’s words from earlier, and Roan’s smile quickly turns into a roguish smirk, a sly glint appearing in his eyes. Clarke ducks her head and crosses her arms. She needs to stop staring at him – she’s certain he can read her like a book. She needs to get Raven and her silly ideas out of her head, ASAP.

“Did your people find anything at the site where our guards were attacked?”

There. She looks up at him to find his smile completely gone. The only evidence that it had existed to begin with is his lingering stare. As if he, too, had been enjoying a conversation with no heavy undertones, no politics. No death.

Now his jaw has tightened and his lips have pressed into a thin line. “Yes. It’s obvious why Skaikru believes we did this. Someone left our mark on a stripped tree.”

Clarke’s brow wrinkles. “I don’t understand.”

Roan gestures towards his royal guard and the emblems on their armor. A white background with a black handprint, crude though they were; the same emblem that now covers street signs, alleyways, and the Tower in Polis. “It marks us as Azgeda when we’re at war or when we’ve secured territory.”

Clarke tilts her head. “But that seems _too_ obvious.”

“Perhaps. But it worked.”

There was no arguing that. “Anything else?”

Roan frowns. The change is slight from his typical stoic expression, but Clarke is better and better at reading him every day. “One of our trackers managed to follow a trail from the site that leads east. Into Trikru territory.”

Clarke closes her eyes and sighs. “That doesn’t mean – “

“I know, Clarke.”

Roan’s gentle words surprise her. Her eyes snap open and she stares at him questioningly.

“You were right,” he admits. “About the connection between the massacre in Azgeda and this. Someone doesn’t want peace among our people.”

Clarke nods. Her gut had told her she was right about this, that there is something more going on here, but to hear Roan agree with her… She’s relieved. “I’ll talk to Kane and ask if anyone’s been acting strange lately. In Skaikru and in Trikru.”

“Good.”

Before Clarke can leave, Roan calls her name. She stops, but she doesn’t face him.

“Clarke,” he says, softer. She has always been aware of the effect his voice has on her. It makes her blood heat up, her heart beat just a little bit faster. But she hasn’t realized, until now, how significant that is.

She doesn’t want to hear her name leave his lips again, for fear of what the hell she’d _do_ , so she turns. He’s closer than she thought, and she eyes the foot of space left between them.

He clearly notices her sudden discomfort, but he says nothing. “I know you’ve lost a friend. But I believe it would be safer for you in Polis.”

Clarke doesn’t retort right away, even though she wants to. She wants to argue a million different things against that statement. That her safety isn’t his concern. That she can look after herself. That her people have her back. That she owes it to Harper, to Nathan’s dad, to stay and fight and make sure they didn’t die in vain. But where she would normally butt heads with him, she finds she doesn’t want to.

“My people need me, Roan.”

He nods, expecting this. “I know. And I know you’ll do everything you can for them. But I truly think the best thing we can do is return to Polis. See what Echo has learned about the massacre in Quehanna.”

“And get married?” Clarke is brazen enough to add, a sarcastic arch to her brow.

Roan smirks, and Clarke feels tingles all the way to her toes. “I was going to say strategize, but if that’s what you desire, Wanheda, then who am I to refuse?”

Clarke’s belly flutters. She manages to roll her eyes, but she’s not quite sure she pulled off nonchalant as much as she wishes. “Let me think about it.”

“Returning to Polis, or marrying me?”

She doesn’t deign him a response. But she smiles when, as she turns her back on him and walks through Arkadia’s gates, she hears him chuckle to himself.

000

Bellamy is no stranger to digging graves. Sweat drips down his spine and gathers on his forehead, but he keeps his head down and focuses on his task. He spears damp soil with the shovel, heaves it up and over his shoulder, and adds it to the growing pile beside him. Spear, heave, spear, heave.

On some level, it helps.

Monty is refusing to talk to anyone. Jasper is talking too much, of course. Raven had only spared Bellamy a nod of acknowledgement on her way to Clarke’s room earlier. Kane keeps pestering Bellamy about this issue and that one. Nathan is, understandably, still hiding out in his room, grieving for his father.

Bellamy feels alone.

Harper and David Miller and six others. Gone. Some he had known closely, others only in passing, but their faces haunt him.

As if that isn’t enough, Bellamy is growing more and more concerned about Clarke and Roan.

Clarke hadn’t even noticed him. Up on the watch tower over the gate, keeping an eye on Dr. Griffin to make sure the Ice Nation warriors didn’t harm her as she argued with Roan. Clarke hadn’t even _noticed_ him. At first, he understood. Seeing Abby Griffin stand toe-to-toe with Ice Nation’s king unsettled Bellamy. He had nearly marched down there himself until he saw Clarke run up. He had been certain she would side with her mother and leave, and in turn make the grounders leave too, but Clarke still manages to surprise him.

She stayed. She asked _Roan_ to stay.

Bellamy feels sick.

Shovel, heave. The pile of dirt beside him grows as he sinks deeper into the earth.

Suddenly, a pair of legs are in his sights. Someone drops into a sitting position, legs dangling languidly into the open grave, like a child on a chair too big for them.

Of course, it’s Octavia.

Her eyes are dark – literally. Bellamy isn’t sure what she uses to chalk the area around her eyes black, but she looks less and less like his baby sister every time he sees her. Her hair has very few braids left in it. Their increasing absence is both a protest to Lincoln’s death, he thinks, and her growing distance from not only Arkadians, but grounders, too.

For as alone as Bellamy feels, he knows it’s nothing compared to Octavia.

Bellamy pauses his shoveling to glance up at her, but he can’t get a good read. She looks bored, but she rarely seeks out his company anymore, not even in boredom. Not since she admitted she only lets him live because he’s her blood.

His heart aches.

“What’s eating at you, big brother?” she asks, and Bellamy hates how much her voice sounds like a taunt. There had been a time when she would look at him with wide blue eyes like he hung the moon. How could so much go wrong?

Bellamy goes back to shoveling. “Not now, O.” He can’t take her anger right now. He has so much he needs to sort out himself – his relationship with his sister is something he knows can’t be fixed with just one conversation.

Octavia produces an apple from her satchel and bites into it lazily. She eyes the grave. “Y’know, there used to be a time when you’d drop everything for me,” she points out.

Bellamy sighs. More dirt is added to the pile. “I still do. You just don’t see it that way anymore.”

Octavia smiles. He misses her smiles. They used to be so full of joy, of curiosity, of wonder. Now, they’re all sharp. “Nah. You just don’t wanna admit I’m not the girl you drop everything for, now. But it’s okay, Bell. I’m not some little girl hiding under the floorboards anymore.”

Bellamy keeps his eyes on the head of the shovel. “I guess you aren’t,” he mumbles.

Octavia rolls her eyes. “What’re you gonna do about Clarke?” For once, she actually sounds interested. Like she wants, maybe needs, an answer.

Bellamy pauses again. He uses the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “Not sure what you mean,” he finally decides on, because no, he doesn’t know what his little sister wants anymore. “Clarke makes her own decisions.”

“Ugh. If you two could pull your heads out of your asses for one second, you’d realize how ridiculous you both are.”

Bellamy glares up at his sister. “The hell’s that mean?”

“It _means_ you never grew a pair after all that shit at Mount Weather and told her how you feel. You let her leave. Then she fell in love with Lexa, and you still stayed on the sidelines. Then Lexa died, and you _still_ didn’t do anything.”

“She was grieving! Lexa was her world.” He eyes his sister carefully, and without malice, adds, “You know what it’s like to lose the one person who means everything to you.”

Octavia’s eyes harden. She takes another bite of her apple, chews it, swallows. “Yeah. I do. But I don’t think Lexa was Clarke’s whole world. I think Lexa was a big part of it, yeah, but I think you were, too.”

“Past tense.”

Octavia pulls her legs up underneath her and gives him an exasperated glance. “Present tense, idiot. She essentially ran all the way to Polis to get you. She even talked about marrying someone else just to get you free.”

Bellamy hates that word, lately. _Marry_. He runs his fingers through his hair and gets frustrated at all the knots he encounters. “She might’ve gone for me, but she’ll marry him because she thinks it’s the right thing. For all of us.” Or maybe she’ll marry him for different reasons. Bellamy’s beginning to think he doesn’t know the half of Clarke’s relationship with Roan.

Octavia’s nose scrunches in annoyance. She stands, suddenly, towering over him, and her shadow eclipses the sun. “Whatever. Thought you could use someone to talk to, but I can see we’re past that now.” Her eyes flick once more to the grave, and she adds as an almost afterthought, “Harper was one of the good ones.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy agrees quietly. “She was.”

But Octavia has already left.

000

Roan watches as eight bodies are carried in wooden boxes to freshly dug graves. The sun is setting slowly and shadows stretch over the burial site, cast from the surrounding forest and the great leviathan building that is the remnants of Skaikru’s Ark.

He stands far enough away from the gathering of Arkadians that no one notices him, settled back into one of the Ark’s blanketing shadows. Aurra stands beside him, at her insistence that he is among enemies. The rest of his guard remain at their makeshift camp to prepare for departure the next morning.

Aurra watches the quiet ceremony with interest, shifting beside Roan. Most would mistake her restlessness at unease in such an unfamiliar situation, but Roan remembers her as the long-limbed child who could hardly ever sit still. He rarely believes in things like fate or destiny, but he doesn’t believe Aurra could have ever been anything other than a warrior.

“Do they not find it offensive to bury their dead in the ground?” Aurra wonders aloud, her voice barely loud enough for Roan to catch.

“No,” he answers. “They visit the graves. They believe it keeps their loved ones close and in their memory.”

Aurra’s brows furrow. “But they trap their souls beneath the earth. It’s… cruel.”

Roan shrugs. “It’s their way, just as it is ours to burn our dead and set them free.”

Aurra goes silent, and Roan watches raptly as Clarke emerges from the crowd to stand at the head of what he assumes is her friend’s coffin. Her hair shines a bright, rich gold in the dying sunlight, and she easily stands out among the rest of her people.

Or perhaps that is only to him. Perhaps he has let his baser desires get the best of him, despite trying his hardest to resist. After she had looked at him so differently earlier that day, he couldn’t get her out of his head.

Roan desperately wants to know if she will return to Polis with him or send him back alone. If they stand on opposite sides of a war. He knows he must be patient. He knows grief and fear weigh heavy on her heart.

He knows she has reasons to stay.

His gaze shifts to Bellamy, who approaches to stand beside her. They speak to their people, but neither Aurra or Roan can quite make out the words. It doesn’t matter, either way. Words of death and grief are nearly the same in all cultures, he thinks.

Roan stays, engulfed in dusk’s encroaching shadows, as the coffins are lowered into the ground. He stays long after most Arkadians have left, going elsewhere to grieve or think or live. He stays because Clarke stays, a frown heavy on her lips, as her people refill the ground. An hour passes and night settles, but Roan remains in his shadow and Aurra stays alert beside him.

Perhaps some part of him hopes Clarke knows she isn’t alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, I think most dialogue in Trig will simply be italicized (I'll give another headsup). It draws me out of the writing process to go and attempt to translate it back and forth, and it's become a bit of a pain. 
> 
> I cherish each and every kudo, comment, and bookmark - so thank you to everyone who has done that!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for the long delay for this chapter... I had a literal mouse infestation in my apartment and needed to move very quickly and things have been hectic ever since. Thank you so much to each and every one of you who has left kudos, comments, and bookmarked this story. It means a lot to me, and I'm sending out good vibes to all of you!
> 
> Lastly, this chapter isn't as edited as my others, so I'm sorry for any mistakes you may find.

Roan has slept little since they left Polis for Arkadia. Weariness pulls at his limbs, but he keeps his head up and his spine straight as he watches the sun crest over the forest to the east. His warriors are dismantling their camp around him, granting the king a wide berth as he stews over his thoughts.

Clarke has not yet told him if she will return to Polis or not, and he finds his stomach is hollow not from hunger, but from an anxiety he has never known. Life for the Azgeda king has always been one trial after another, tests of strength and perseverance that many would have succumbed to, and this should be no different. The trial is a simple one: either his people will war with Skaikru or they will not. The implications are simple, too: the war would either destroy the people who can craft medicine and technology and life-saving things, or it would destroy the people Roan is sworn to protect. If he and Clarke can come to an agreement, then it will do neither. Simple.

But it doesn’t feel so simple. In fact, it gets more and more complicated every day he’s around Clarke. And the thought of a traitor among them doesn’t help.

“Ain azplan,” Neo says, standing a good three feet in front of Roan with bright eyes and an almost-smile. The warrior’s feathery copper hair glints in the growing sunlight, and a shadow almost hides the tattoo crossing half of his face. “You have not eaten since yesterday morning.” He holds out an apple, crisp and red, and urges his liege to take it. “I imagine Wanheda would be displeased to hear it, so eat.”

Roan arches a brow. Neo has always toed the line between subject and friend, but never so liberally than at this moment. Still, Roan accepts and bites into the skin of the apple and eyes his loyal guard. “Has Wanheda emerged yet?”

Neo’s smile turns sympathetic. “No, sire. Shall we send for her?”

The hollowness in Roan’s gut deepens. “No.”

His guard nods. Neo turns to leave, but stands straighter when the screech of Arkadia’s gates signals its opening. All of Roan’s guards stand to attention at the sound, hands on the pommels of their weapons, and create a loose arc around him as a precaution. Roan gets to his feet, apple forgotten, expecting to see the blonde-haired sky princess herself.

Instead, he is met with the dark glare of Bellamy Blake.

Bellamy approaches the circle of guards surrounding Roan, ignoring the way each of them has tensed. “Shouldn’t you be heading back to Polis, your majesty?” Bitterness permeates each syllable that leaves the boy’s mouth, and his glare only intensifies. “Clarke’s not going with you.”

Roan ignores the coil of anxiety in his gut. He projects a neutral tone, “Has she said so?”

It’s clear in the way Bellamy shifts and fists his hands that she has not. “She doesn’t need to. She’s not here – she’s not going.”

Roan studies the boy for a time, uttering in Azgedasleng for his warriors to continue their preparations. His guards disperse, but Neo remains at Roan’s side.

“Bellamy, for someone so against Clarke being forced into marriage, you certainly like to make a lot of decisions for her.”

The words strike true. Bellamy takes one step forward, his fists bone-white, but he’s unarmed. Roan holds his stare lazily, as if it matters not if Clarke will leave with him or stay. Because it doesn’t, does it? It doesn’t matter. It’s as simple as that.

He ignores the quiet voice at the back of his mind that insists otherwise.

“I’m trying to keep her safe,” Bellamy says.

“So am I.”

The words seem to both mystify and anger Bellamy. He grinds his teeth together, and his eyes slide from Roan to Neo and their weapons.

Roan sighs. “Don’t be stupid, Bellamy. Go back inside.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“Then take my advice. Go.”

Bellamy takes another step forward and Neo edges in front of Roan.

Roan tilts his head towards Neo, but continues to stare at Bellamy. “ _Gon osir_ , Neo.” [Leave us, Neo.”

His guard holds his ground. “ _Ba goufa branwoda_.” [But the boy is foolish.]

Roan grunts. “ _Branwoda, na jompwoda.”_ [Foolish, not dangerous.]

“ _Sometimes there is no difference, my king,”_ Neo says with a shrug, finally giving the pair some distance.

Bellamy watches the guard storm off with a glare. “Clarke belongs with her people. You think you’re keeping her safe by taking her away?”

Roan closes his eyes a moment and prays for patience, but he feels his blood boiling. Bellamy must learn his place sooner or later, and it seems like fate is pushing for sooner. “I’m not taking her anywhere. She can come with me if she chooses. And if she does choose to, then she will be safe.”

“She’ll _never_ be safe with you. You’re a king of savages, Roan. I know she thinks she sees more in you, in your people, but that’s all you are.”

The Azgeda king’s jaw locks. All of his muscles are coiled but restrained as he takes a single step to stand face-to-face with Bellamy. “You’re testing my patience. I will negotiate with Clarke and no one else, because it is her right to decide for herself. I know you love her.” Bellamy flinches at this, but he doesn’t back down. “But if your love is true, then you will step aside and allow her to choose what she believes is right.”

Bellamy’s fist flies up quicker than Roan anticipates. He is able to partially deflect the blow, but it still glances off his temple, knocking Roan slightly to the side.

All of Roan’s patience has evaporated.

Before the boy can strike again, Roan throws a punch into his gut, winding him completely. Bellamy falls to his knees, but he isn’t waylaid. He comes at Roan again and again, each time catching only air with each fist or knee he throws, until Roan lands one solid hit square in Bellamy’s face. Bone crunches beneath Roan’s fist and Bellamy gasps in pain, finally sinking to his knees to cradle his nose.

“Fuck you!” Bellamy shouts despite the blood pouring from his nose. He glares up at Roan with more hatred than the young king has known in a lifetime. “Fuck you, you piece of shit. You – “

“What the _hell_ is going on?” Clarke asks after rounding the gates, her blonde hair a flurry around her face and her cheeks flushed from running.

She looks between the men, fear and surprise painted across her expression, before turning at last to Roan. “What the hell is this? Roan?”

Roan is breathing heavily. His fist is reddened from where it had collided with the cartilage of Bellamy’s face, and he stares at it as he contemplates how to answer Clarke’s question.

Bellamy, of course, beats him to it. “You’d leave with a man like this?” Bellamy gestures at Roan as if the king is some demented, wild animal, and the blood on Bellamy’s hands certainly doesn’t help paint Roan as much otherwise. “You’d fucking _marry_ him?”

Clarke stares down at Bellamy, her every thought clear on her face. Sadness, despair, uncertainty, fear. And finally, resolve. She approaches the boy and kneels in front of him, inspecting the bruise blossoming around his eyes. “You need to go to medical.”

Bellamy reels back from her. “You didn’t answer my question, Clarke.”

She stands. Finally, she looks at Roan, blue eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

“Yes,” she says, quiet enough that Roan has to strain to hear her. “I will.”

Bellamy sits back on his heels, deflated. “What?”

“I will,” she says firmer, looking at her friend. “I’ve made up my mind, Bellamy.”

“But you _can’t_ – “

“I can, because it’s _my_ choice!” Clarke shouts. “You and my mom and everyone else who has a goddamn opinion - you all think you can tell me what to do, or what’s right and what’s wrong. But _I’ve_ decided.” She motions behind her, at the gate, and Roan finally sees that it’s true. She’s packed a few things to bring with her, which are currently in the death-grip of her dark-haired friend, the mechanic. The girl stares at Clarke, wide-eyed, but with the hint of a proud smile on her lips.

“ _I_ have decided,” Clarke reiterates to Bellamy. “So just – go to medical. You need to get that set.”

Bellamy doesn’t move, but Clarke doesn’t care. She turns back to her friend. Behind the other girl stands Clarke’s mother, misty-eyed, and Kane.

Clarke accepts her backpack. “Thanks, Rae. For everything.”

The girl, Rae – Raven, Roan thinks her name is – just shrugs. “That’s what I’m here for.”

They hug tightly, and Roan almost regrets that Clarke must leave her friend behind. It’s only a day’s ride to Arkadia, and Roan knows he will need to make the trip often in the future, if only for Clarke to see her friends. When Clarke turns to say goodbye to her mother and Kane, a bereft Bellamy watching the entire exchange, Raven approaches Roan. A skeleton of metal encases one of her legs, and she limps as she walks, but there’s strength in her spine and a spark in her eyes he has seen in very few. She hands him another bag, which she says contains some things she and her friends put together for Clarke, and sizes him up.

“I’m Raven, not sure we’ve really met,” she says. There’s something in her tone that makes Roan cautious. “I can build weapons, y’know. Lots of ‘em. Big, mean weapons your people have never seen. So if you hurt Clarke in any way…” She trails off and gives him a fierce, sharp-toothed smile.

Roan decides right away that he likes her. “You’ll build a weapon to annihilate me?”

Her smile morphs into a grin. She pats his arm, as if he isn’t the king of hardened warriors, and says, “Glad you’ve got some brain cells. Take care of her, okay? Clarke does a lot of stupid stuff. So just… keep her from being stupid for a while.”

Roan even manages a ghost of a smile. “I’ll do my best.”

Then Clarke is there, steadfastly looking anywhere but at him, and says, “Let’s get going.”

000

The fire crackles and hisses as Clarke warms her hands over it. Night has drawn over the traveling party returning to Polis, and once again Neo insisted the group stop at a well-known cave system until morning. Clarke isn’t in a rush this time – she dreads whatever news Echo may bring them in Polis, but she dreads even more the reckoning she must have with herself.

She will marry Roan. The decision was easy, after seeing Harper lowered into the earth.

If she is honest with herself, and she usually prides herself on being so, then she will also admit that the decision has become easier in light of her conversation with Raven. But that doesn’t mean it’s any easier to be around the Ice Nation king. If anything, it’s worse. Much, much worse.

It seems he, too, has taken note.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Roan says over her shoulder, startlingly close. Despite his size, all broad shoulders and muscles, Roan is a silent sort of predator.

Although the king is one-hundred percent correct, Clarke fibs. “Hard to ignore someone when you’re riding beside them all day.” She toes the dirt in front of her, refusing to tilt her head and meet his sharp, turquoise eyes.

Roan snorts, half-amused, half frustrated. “Guess I would’ve thought the same thing before today. Turns out, I’d be wrong.” He shifts until he’s beside her and takes a seat on the moss-covered log. He allows enough distance between them for her to breathe, but the move seems calculated. “If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll escort you back to your people. You need only say so, Clarke.”

Clarke finally looks at him. His gaze is open, honest, and her belly flutters. Roan has always been shuttered, locked up and tight-lipped. But none of his usual disposition is present. No, he means it, even if it’s clear he doesn’t like it. He wants her to know she can still change her mind.

The fire pops and sizzles, drawing Clarke’s stare. She watches a dead leaf curl up in flames.

“No,” she says, resolute. “I’m going back with you.”

He doesn’t prod her with questions like _To marry me?_ or anything of the sort, and for that, Clarke is grateful. She worries she’d up and hide in the forest if he did. For a moment, the pair is silent. She can feel his eyes on her.

“I’m scared too, Clarke.”

It’s a quiet admission. Fragile, even. As if Roan is giving part of himself away with these words. Clarke’s heart stutters a moment, and she realizes that maybe he is. He is showing her the layers beneath the careful exterior he has crafted. Roan, the outcast, the Splita, the banished. Roan, the peasant prince. Roan, the warrior, the killer, the remorseless. Roan, son of Nia. Roan, the king.

He is letting her in, just a little bit, to see past all the strength and stoicism he must cloak himself in for the sake of his people.

Clarke runs his words through her head, over and over again. _I’m scared, too_.

She glances at him. It’s brief, because for some reason, holding his stare has become one of the hardest things she has to do these days, but it’s enough for her to see the struggle in his expression. Part of him wants to lock down again. But another part, she thinks, wants her to see more.

“On the Ark,” she says, though the words leave her mouth before they are given much thought, “we were expected to get married. I thought I’d marry my best friend. Wells. We were never… romantic or anything. But I trusted him, and I thought that was good enough.” She glances at Roan again, feeling suddenly shy at sharing such personal details, but she finds him listening raptly. As if every word she says is one he is memorizing. She takes a breath and continues. “Wells died.” She picks up a twig, runs her fingers over its smooth body. “Not long after we landed. A little girl murdered him because of his father.” A few stray hairs block her vision of the twig, the fire, and she brushes them away absently.

When Roan finally speaks, there is a question in his tone. “You said your people married for love.”

Clarke gives him a watery smile. “I loved him like family.” She tosses the twig into the fire. It’s eaten up immediately – soft brown-green bark turns black. Rivets of smoke curl from its end. “Marriage never really bothered me much, but after I learned what my mother did to my father –“The words can’t even move past her lips, stuck in her throat as they are. Clarke doesn’t even realize she’s clenching her fists until a rough, calloused hand settles atop hers. Gentle.

His hand engulfs hers completely. It is scarred and tanned against her pale, unmarked skin. It’s the first time they’ve touched like this. They had shaken hands in blood pacts, true, but this is a different kind of touch.

Clarke bites her lip. She flips her hand over, palm up, to hold his, purposefully ignoring his intense stare as she does.

It feels right.

“My mom,” she gets the words out, because she needs him to know, “let my father die. She betrayed him.” Her voice cracks, and Roan’s fingers tighten on hers, granting her strength. “He knew the Ark was running out of oxygen. He wanted to warn people, but – “ She shakes her head and her shoulders fall, but her grip on Roan remains. “Your mother killed your father, too.” Lifting her head, she meets his blue eyes head on. “What could marriage bring, except one of us dead?”

Roan swallows. His eyes trail over Clarke’s face – her cheeks, her mouth, the tightness of her brow – and he shifts so he is facing her head-on. Pulling her hand into his lap, he says resolutely, “We are not our parents.”

“How do you know?”

The smile that curls on his lips is sad. “Because we are fighting for peace. We want to save the many instead of sacrifice them for the few.” And he adds with more certainty than Clarke is prepared for: “Because we can trust each other.”

 _Trust each other_. Clarke blinks up at him, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Can we?”

“Yes.”

“You said just the other day you didn’t trust me,” she points out with a watered-down smile.

Roan sighs. He glances down at their entwined hands and runs a thumb over her skin. Clarke represses a shiver. “I trust you to make the hard decisions and do the right thing. To care not only for your people, but for everyone’s. But what you have with Bellamy… that makes it hard to trust you completely, some days.”

Clarke’s brow puckers. She nearly withdraws her hand from his grip, but Roan holds it firmly, and she relaxes again. “I don’t have anything with Bellamy.”

Roan huffs a laugh. “Someone should tell Bellamy that.”

“I think your fist did,” she says, eyebrows raised in reproach. Roan has the decency to try to hide his smirk. “And I left.” _I chose you_ are the words she refuses to say, but they seem to hang in the air between them regardless.

Roan considers this for a few moments, and Clarke is content to let him. She stares down at their hands and wonders when last she felt this comfortable around someone. This _safe_. Bellamy, before Mt. Weather, she thinks. Even with Lexa, their quiet moments had been fleeting, and there had never been any expectation that they could be frequent or _more_. But Clarke has already said she will marry Roan, even if neither of them have acknowledged it yet. There could be more moments like this.

She could feel safe. Maybe even happy.

Roan’s hand slips away and Clarke fears she’s already hoped for too much. But he removes a necklace that had been hidden beneath his furs and lets it drop into one of his hands, sitting between them.

Clarke stares at it.

The Flame.

It brings back so many memories, mostly of Lexa. Mostly of blood, black as night. Blood that now runs through her veins, too.

“You should hold onto this,” Roan says, offering it to her. When Clarke locks eyes with him, she feels like he’s telling her something more. “I think it’s safest with you.”

Clarke accepts it. The Flame looks infinitely bigger in her small hand. It has barely any weight to it, and yet it feels like she’s holding the whole world and its fate in her grip. “Why?” she wonders aloud.

Roan’s knee touches hers. “You’re giving up a lot for your people. And you’re placing your trust in me.” He gives a halfhearted shrug and nods at the Flame. “The Flame is part of the reason I’ve remained king.”

“And you trust me with it,” Clarke says, rather than asks.

“Yes.”

Yes, Clarke thinks to herself as she settles the little piece of technology around her neck, as she feels the heat of Roan in the simple touch against her knee, maybe she could be happy.


End file.
